


A Present to You

by isuilde



Category: Free!
Genre: Description of blood, Future Fish Au, M/M, Unbeta-ed, can i put maybe a warning for shitty half-assed scifi stuff here idk anymore, i'm pretty sure at one point you'll definitely go what the fuck isu, mistakenly dead character who is not actually dead?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rin is like a dream.</p><p>Makoto just wishes it could last longer.</p><p>(In which Rin brings changes. Literally. Makoto doesn't even notice until the very end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins With

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attemptsonwords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attemptsonwords/gifts), [risotto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/risotto/gifts), [gestahlt (Ad_Astra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Astra/gifts), [proshy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/proshy/gifts), [teletou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teletou/gifts), [sugarblaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarblaster/gifts).



> /harried-sounding laughter/ I DID IT AND I'M NOT EVEN SURE WHAT I DID
> 
> But this is this year's birthday present for the February babies as well as late January babies this year. I'm sorry that I'm late for some of you, and I'm sorry that this blew up and doesn't even make any sense, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Happy birthday, thank you for being where you are right now that I could have met you in the course of my life, and I'm utterly, utterly glad to be able to call you as friends.
> 
> Enjoy your present!

To him, everything begins with a cacophonous sound of a supporting beam falling apart under the raging fire, trapping him in the kitchen of the burning apartment, and a sinking feeling of _I’m not going to make it._

He coughs, throat constricting in his struggle to breathe, choking on smoke and ash and hopelessness. Mikoshiba was right—going up further than the seventh floor had been a mistake. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of there might have been someone left behind, someone stuck, waiting to be saved, so he’d gone up by himself anyway, ignoring s squad’s protests and yells, and—

Oh, Haruka is going to be so angry at him.

The edges of his vision is blurring, darkness creeping in with each and every cough that wrecks his body, and his knees are hitting the scorching floor when he hears the voice, stead and strong even when his ears feel like they’re clogged up with cottons, sounding like the noises he hears when he’s underwater: “Shit, you didn’t say it was this much of a mess.”

Makoto opens his mouth, tries to say what, but only manages to catch a glimpse of red flashing before his eyes, before strong hands haul him up, winding securely around his waist, providing the support his legs can’t give anymore. He frowns—his brain registering the lack of fire gears on this person’s body, and thinks it’s funny that a fireman has to be saved by a civilian in a burning apartment building; didn’t he come up here to look for people trapped by the fire?

He must have said something about it, because the person snorts against the top of his head, and he hears, “You never changed.”

And then everything goes black.

**\------o0o------**

He’s never seen Haruka so angry at him before.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, the syllables sounding strangled and his throat stings, but all he gets is Haruka’s silence from the other side of his hospital room. Not a glare, not any kind of look—just silence, and it’s worse than the twins yelling at him when he’d woken up earlier in the day.

Makoto supposes he deserves it, after causing so much worry for everyone. He’s been out cold for three days straight from smoke inhalation, longer than even the worst injured of the burnt apartment tenants, and this is perhaps the first time he’s scared his family and friends so much ever since he’d chosen to be a firefighter. Not to mention that he’d nearly died for nothing—there was no one else to save in the burning apartment when he went back in for the higher floors.

…or was there…?

“Rest,” Haruka tells him, voice clipped and irritated, still, but underneath the anger Makoto hears relief lacing the curt tone, hears fond exasperation and understanding—and Makoto smiles. He’s not forgiven, not yet, but this is Haruka telling him that he’ll calm down, that the anger will fade, that Haruka is mad but he doesn’t hate Makoto for choosing to be who he is.

So Makoto obeys the order and closes his eyes again.

**\------o0o------**

When he wakes up, there’s a flash of red moving on the corner of his eyes, and Makoto turns to the window to see a silhouette of a man sitting on his windowsill, shoulders pressing against the wall, red hair tied back and tucked under a cap.

Makoto blinks. Twice. Thrice. “Um.”

The man stiffens minutely, his set of shoulders tensing for a second before relaxing completely, and Makoto watches as he turns around, bathed in the orange glow of sunset rays streaming in from his open window. There’s a smile curving up his lips, turning the lines of his face into a softer look, and Makoto feels warm.

“You’re awake,” the man says—a voice so familiar, with eyes the same bright shade as his hair, framed by the shadows of the cap he’s wearing. A police cap, Makoto realizes belatedly, and only then does he notice the police uniform. “Glad I got there in time.”

“Huh?” Makoto says eloquently.

One fine eyebrow raises, and the man grins at him. “Is that how you greet your lifesaver, Tachibana Makoto?”

**\------o0o------**

The man’s name is Matsuoka Rin, and he is a cop. Somehow, the knowledge makes Makoto feel infinitely better to have been saved by him. After all, a cop is a town’s superhero—in a way.

“So is a firefighter,” Matsuoka shrugs, when Makoto tells him so. His grin is light, comfortable, and Makoto envies the easy way Matsuoka carries himself, like he doesn’t care much that Makoto is literally a stranger. There is unmistakable confidence in each and every one of his gesture, in the way he moves about the room, fetching a glass of water to give to Makoto. “You’ve got to learn to do your job more carefully, though, Tachibana.”

The way Matsuoka says his surname is odd, Makoto thinks, halting and unsure, like his tongue is struggling with syllables that he doesn’t know how to pronounce. So Makoto says, “Makoto,” and when Matsuoka looks at him in surprise, he hastily continues, “Just Makoto—please. You saved my life, I think you can call me by my name.”

It’s almost blinding, the way Matsuoka breaks into a wide grin, sharp shark teeth flashing and the corners of his eyes crinkling. Makoto doesn’t understand why he looks so happy, but he smiles back, because no one would not smile back at such a genuinely happy grin, and Matsuoka says, “Then, you can call me Rin. It’s only fair, isn’t it?”

Makoto hesitates. _Rin,_ he tries out silently, then out loud: “Rin.”

Matsuoka’s grin softens into a smile, warm and—and _something_ Makoto cannot quite decipher, because no strangers ever smiled at him like that, not even the ones he’d saved from licking flames and scorching buildings.

“Yeah, Makoto?”

And there, on a hospital bed, under the warm sunset rays and layers of oranges and reds painting the sterile white walls, to a person he’s only known for twenty minutes despite the fact that he owes his life to this person, Makoto’s breath catches in his throat, and he thinks, _oh._

_Oh._

**\------o0o------**

Rin is like a dream, in a lot of ways.

Makoto doesn’t understand why Rin visits him a lot—perhaps it’s a cop’s sense of duty, perhaps it’s the sense of responsibility after saving someone’s life, to make sure that said someone actually survives and well. He doesn’t understand why Rin never comes on visiting hours, doesn’t understand why none of the nurses ever comes to his room to scold Rin and drag him out. He doesn’t understand why Rin always walks into his room with a smile, easy and comfortable, as if he’s coming _home_ even if he’s still in his police uniform.

His visits are always brief—Makoto knows to expect Rin, now, when the sun is this close to kissing the horizon, when the layers of red and oranges are reaching the corners of his room. Rin would walk in, his smile a soft curve on his lips, the sunset rays a pretty shade over the lines of his body as he closes the distance between the door and Makoto’s bed, bending down slightly over as he looks at Makoto in the eyes and says, “Yo, Makoto.”

Makoto would smile, every day a little wider than before, and replies, “Hello, Rin.”

Sometimes there would be flowers, but most of the times it would just be Rin, sitting on the hard chair by Makoto’s bed, elbows digging into the bed as he leans forward to talk. He listens, he laughs, he tells Makoto random things he sees by the day, until the last of the sun rays fade into darkness and the lights on the ceiling blinks awake automatically. Then Rin would stand up, stretch a bit, and says, “Well, that was fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Makoto twists his fingers into the blankets so as to not reach out and catch Rin’s hand, to not pull him back down and keep him by his side as long as he can. Instead he smiles back, hopeful if a little bit giddy, and answers, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then, like a dream, Rin disappears behind the door, and everything is back to stark white and bland, and Makoto is left with a wistful sigh, and a peculiar feeling of _waiting for tomorrow._

**\------o0o------**

He tells Haruka about Rin, of course.

Haruka pauses in-between bites of croquettes to say, “The one who saved you.”

Makoto nods. “I was too out of it to remember exactly how it went, but I remember him being there, yeah. He pulled me out of the building, didn’t he? Otherwise,” he swallows, the sudden fear and helplessness creeping back up his throat. “I wouldn’t be here.”

Haruka makes a noise at the back of his throat. “Why doesn’t he come on visiting hours?”

“I don’t know, maybe he has shifts at work? I don’t even know why he still visits me.” The rest of the sentence is left hanging in the air, a silent _I hope he still visits me today_ unsaid, but heard all the same. Makoto takes another bite of the croquette Haruka brings, marvels at the burst of taste in his mouth—the hospital’s food is nothing compared to Haruka’s cooking. “I wish you could meet him, Haru. He’s very nice, I’m sure you’ll get along.”

“Hm,” is all he gets from Haruka, but there’s a knowing tone somewhere in there that sends warmth crawling up Makoto’s cheeks. He opens his mouth, tries to deny, but Haruka stares at him the way he would at the twins’ antics, and Makoto closes his mouth in favor of burying his burning face into the blankets.

“Is it that obvious,” he asks, the words muffled by the white fabrics. Haruka snorts.

But Haruka also leaves a paper bag of croquettes the next day, setting it aside on Makoto’s bedside table as the two of them eat, clearly meant for someone who isn’t here yet, and Makoto smiles because this is how Haruka shows his gratitude to people.

“This is from Haru,” he says when he hands it to Rin, that evening. Rin pauses, wide-eyed at the paper bag, and Makoto finishes, “His croquettes are the best.”

Rin makes a broken noise at the back of his throat as he opens the paper bag and the scent of the croquettes greet his nose. “Your best friend the Chef, right?”

“Yes,” Makoto laughs, and nearly chokes when Rin makes even more obscene noises at first bite. “Rin!”

“Shut up,” Rin says around a mouthful. “I’ve wanted to eat this for a while now.”

“I didn’t know you like croquettes that much.”

“Actually,” Rin points at him with the croquette, squirrel-cheeked. “I love steaks better. And spicy things.”

_Cute,_ Makoto thinks, unbidden, and he hides a smile. “I’ll make sure to let Haru know, then.”

**\------o0o------**

“Can I still see you, after tomorrow?”

Rin’s smile is bright, brighter than the blinding sunset rays, and Makoto has to dig his fingers into his own arms to remind himself not to reach out.

Rin is a lot like a dream.

If he reaches out, if he tries to touch him, would Rin disappear?

“Of course, idiot,” and Makoto’s eyes widen, because it’s Rin who reaches out, the tips of his fingers brushing against Makoto’s knuckles. “I’ll see you around.”

**\------o0o------**

He doesn’t see Rin for days after he got out of the hospital.

Makoto returns to his apartment, finding the mess his siblings left while they stayed over for the length of his hospital stay, and only goes to clean it up because Haruka refuses to cook dinner for him if he doesn’t. There are cards from his colleagues, most of them are get well soon cards but some also say _this should teach you not to do stupid things_ or _next time, listen to your seniors!_ and Makoto just laughs and keeps them in a small photo album.

This, too, is a part of why he loves being a firefighter.

The station is rambunctious on his first day coming back to work—half of the station wants to strangle him for being stupid, and half of them are just glad he’s still among the living. Makoto supposes he should be grateful that Mikoshiba lets him go with only one hit on the head, most likely because Hanamura is yelling at him not to overdo the punishment because they really don’t want to send Makoto back to the hospital.

“By the way Mikoshiba-san,” he asks on lunch break, letting Mikoshiba steal one of the sandwiches he’d bought earlier from Haruka’s café just down the road. “Did you see the person who brought me out from the building?”

Mikoshiba’s eyebrows knit. “You mean your savior?”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t he one of the police officers who just happens to be on site?” Mikoshiba laughs, smacks Makoto on the back until he teeters forward, the box of sandwiches nearly jumping out of his hands. “I see how it is, now! Tachibana, you’re looking for your savior, huh? Want me to get our ins in the police station and see if we could find him?”

It’s a good offer. A rational one. Makoto stares at the sandwiches, remembers the soft shade of Rin’s smile and the shadow of sunset highlighting his hair.

_“I’ll see you around.”_

He smiles.

“That’s alright,” he says, taking in Mikoshiba’s curious look with a soft chuckle. “I think I’ll see him around soon.”

**\------o0o------**

Soon, apparently, happens the night after, as Makoto walks out of his apartment building towards the convenient store just across the road. It’s chilly out, the strong wind a sign of an autumn storm coming, and he’s waiting for the pedestrian lights to turn green, pulling out his phone to reply a message from Nagisa, when he sees Rin standing just across the street.

Their eyes meet, and Makoto realizes with a rush of something he can’t explain: _Rin is waiting_.

He doesn’t run when the green light blinks. Rin doesn’t, either. He reaches out instead, when Makoto’s close enough for an arm reach, his grin confident and bright even under the fluorescent streetlights.

"It’s been a while.”

Makoto doesn’t hesitate to take his hand.

“Hello, Rin.”

**\------o0o------**

The tips of Rin’s hair curl as he bends over Makoto’s stove, stirring the pot of stew, and Makoto once again tries to rewind the events that had transpired in the last one and a half hour. He’d gone down to the convenient store with the intention to buy a dinner package he could heat up, and Rin, having finally met him, had followed him to the convenience store and criticized him strongly on his choices of pre-cooked convenience store dinner.

That, somehow, had led to this situation, with Rin commandeering his kitchen and making him dinner.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he calls out, and Rin snorts, waving his hand dismissively.

“You are terrible in the kitchen.”

Makoto makes an offended face, even if Rin has his back towards him. “You don’t know that.”

It earns him a snort. “Your behavior in the convenience store and the fact that you can’t differentiate kinoko and shiitake kinda showed a lot, Makoto.”

And there’s something about having Rin in his kitchen— _his_ apartment, _his_ space—that makes something in Makoto settle down, the odd feeling of _this is right_ , especially with how comfortable Rin looks bustling about in his kitchen: his uniform jacket abandoned on the couch, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the light humming that escapes his lips as he stirs the stew.

Makoto probably shouldn’t be surprised that the stew is exactly the way he likes it, as well.

“How do you know I like it with a hint of sweet?” he exclaims on the first spoonful, voice filled with amazement. “This is delicious, Rin!”

The redhead grins. “Good to know our tastes match.”

The words feel like a flirtation. Makoto wonders if it is one, and very nearly chokes on his next spoonful. No, no, Rin can’t be flirting with him. There’s just no way someone like Rin would be interested in him—he’s too bland, too normal, compared to Rin who’s practically the town’s hero. But heart is a tricky thing; no matter how much you try to reason with it, to tell it that it’s not possible, it still hopes.

He sighs, looks back into his bowl, and tries to divert the conversation by saying, “I wish I could eat this everyday.”

And miraculously, Rin perks up. “Want me to cook for you tomorrow, too?”

“Huh?” Makoto splutters, quickly putting his bowl back onto the table before he chokes. “I—I can’t ask you that! I mean, this is delicious, and it’s really kind of you, Rin, but—“

“It’s not going to be a problem for me,” Rin shrugs. “Would be great to have dinner with someone again.”

He hears longing in Rin’s voice. Hears the slightest lilt of loneliness, the unspoken story of being used to having dinner with someone, but haven’t been able to have that luxury for a while now. Makoto wonders how many of those unspoken stories Rin weave in-between his words, and if he’d ever get the privilege of listening to those stories being told, one day. He’d like to hear them—Rin’s stories, the days he’d spent and the days he plans, the days he is a hero and the days he lets go, the days before he became the town’s hero and the days he’s looking forward to as a hero.

So he says, quietly, “It’d be great to always have dinner with you,” watches amusement flits over RIn’s eyes, and quickly adds, “even when you don’t cook for me! Really!”

Rin props his chin on his hands, eyes meeting Makoto’s, a small smile in his lips. “Sure you do.”

**\------o0o------**

And just like that, their routines begin. Every night before he leaves, Rin would leave a list of groceries, and Makoto would get them the next day (he usually gets half of them wrong, earning him an exasperated look from Rin, but he’s learning. Very slowly.), and then Rin would cook whatever it is he has in mind that day. Sometimes he brings over drinks, too, and they’d spend the night talking over the awful reality TV, or Makoto would drag out his game consoles and proceed to challenge Rin in shooting games.

Rin is, annoyingly, very good at it.

“I’m a cop,” Rin laughingly points out when Makoto complains. His shoulder is pressing flush against Makoto’s own, and his eyes are bright despite the small intake of alcohol he’d had earlier. Makoto feels something in himself stirs—at the brush of Rin’s arm, at the way Rin’s bangs sway as he laughs, at the confident smirk curving over his lips, showing the slightest of sharp teeth. He wonders how much of it is caused by the alcohol—or perhaps amplified?

“Hey, Rin,” he says, and tries not to cringe when it sounds like a squeak. His pulse is pounding hard in his ears, steadily faster, _thump-thump-thump_ much like the way it felt back in high school when he stood on the starting block, waiting for the whistle to resound. Except this has more to do with the way Rin’s leg brushes against his own, and the way the light from the TV illuminates the curve of his collarbone. “You should just spend the night here.”

Rin tilts his head, ever-so-slightly, eyes finding Makoto’s own, and his smirk changes.

Makoto doesn’t understand what it means—the way Rin’s gaze softens, the way his lips curl in a— _dare he hopes_ —fond curve. But their shoulders are still pressed together, a comfortable contact, and Rin’s limbs are loose and relaxed, each line of his body seemingly at home, clearly not inclined to move anytime soon.

Rin jostles him from the side, gently.

“I’m not cooking you breakfast, though.”

**\------o0o------**

None of them is cooking breakfast in the end—they both end up sleeping on the couch like a pile of drunken puppies, limbs tangled and snores muffled into clothes and blankets. It’s how Haruka finds them at ten in the morning, looking displeased because apparently Makoto’s phone died and consequently his calls all morning couldn’t get through.

On the other hand, both he and Rin wakes up to the heavenly smell of the pancakes Haruka brings from his café. Rin is positively drooling the second he opens his eyes to see the take-away boxes, but Haruka lightly slaps his hand when he reaches out, and deadpans, “Who are you.”

Rin groans. “Fuck you, too.”

Haruka turns to Makoto, eyes demanding explanation, and Makoto sheepishly scratches the back of his head. “Um, remember the cop who saved my life?” He gestures towards Rin, tries to ignore how one of Rin’s legs is still resting over his thigh. “Haru, meet Rin. Rin, this is my best friend, Haru.”

Rin stretches, and Makoto’s eyes almost religiously follows the line of his body, the way his shirt rides up lightly to expose the curve of his waist. “Yeah, I think Makoto’s mentioned you more than a couple of times.” He grins, raising one hand, just as Makoto manages to rip his eyes off Rin’s lower body and returns his gaze to Rin’s face instead. “Yo.”

Haruka just looks at him, and Rin answers with a shrug. “We were drinking last night and Makoto said I could sleep over.”

There’s the slightest look of surprise flitting through Haruka’s face—one Makoto mirrors, at how easily Rin answers the unspoken question Haruka has. Strangers don’t usually do that—can’t usually do that, what with Haruka’s lack of expression most of the times (or at least that’s how he appears to others if you haven’t known him well, apparently). Rin, though, doesn’t seem to realize that he’d just done something rather incredible, and instead pokes at the box Haruka still has in his hands.

“You don’t bring enough for two people, do you? Hey, Makoto, can I share?”

**\------o0o------**

Rin fits into his life almost effortlessly, in a way that if Makoto had just paused and considered things, he’d probably been puzzled over how easily Rin seems to know him. They never bump into one another at their jobs, and Makoto never tries to ask someone from the police about Rin, either, even if Mikoshiba keeps ribbing him about _the-gorgeous-redhead-cop-who-saved-his-ass_. It’s always afterhours when he’d hurry back home, dropping by the grocery store just to buy things on the list Rin gives him the night before—or, much more frequently lately, in the morning—and waits for Rin to knock on his door for dinner.

He likes seeing Rin look comfortable in his space—how he moves about in the kitchen finding cutleries and spices, how he chooses books from Makoto’s shelves, how he pulls out the gaming consoles without Makoto prompting him to, or how he would wander in the middle of the night wearing only boxers and blankets haphazardly thrown over his shoulders like a cape, revealing too much skin that Makoto has to tell himself to look away.

But Rin, of course, notices. Grins like a tempting devil. “What is it, Makoto?”

“Nothing.” Rin has beautiful legs. Smooth arm, good-looking muscles. He tries fighting the flush working up his cheeks, thankful that the lights are dim now because they’re watching a movie. It’s only then that he catches the jagged scar running down Rin’s left thigh, marring the unblemished skin, standing out like it doesn’t belong there. There’s an urge to reach out and touch it, to make sure that the scar is real—Makoto swallows. “Um, Rin? That scar—“

Rin glances down, following Makoto’s line of sight. “Oh, this? Yeah, it was a dumb accident. There was a kidnapping case, I was chasing the kidnapper, tried to kick him in the face but he cut me open instead.” A soft smile curves over his lips. “Ugly, huh?”

“What?” Makoto blinks, frowning. “No. That’s your—I don’t know, proof of being a hero? Don’t laugh,” he adds hastily, flushing beet red when Rin snorts. “You save lives.”

Rin shrugs. “Kind of my job.” Then, with a light shove on Makoto’s shoulder, he continues, “Your job, too.”

But there’s an unmistakable look of pride in his eyes, Makoto realizes. Pride of being able to help, of doing something he always wants to do. Pride in his job, perhaps, but also pride in himself, for being able to do something. He knows, he recognizes it, because Makoto feels it, too. Every time a fire is put down, every time he climbs a tree to get a kitten down, every time an elementary school kid says that they want to be a firefighter.

He smiles, and silently scoots closer towards Rin. “Yeah, I guess.”

Rin doesn’t move away.

**\------o0o------**

There are also times when he’d find Rin on the corner of Haruka’s café on lunch hours, bugging Haruka about his menu or just life in general. Makoto supposes Haruka can’t really wave away the person who saved his best friend’s life, but after several weeks, he catches the corners of Haruka’s lips twitch up into a small smile, and that’s how he knows how much Haruka enjoys Rin’s presence in his café. It makes him happier, somehow—even more so when Rin waves him over to the table and jostles him from the side, shoulders and arms pressing as he grins, and Makoto forgets about the days before Rin crashes into his life, quite literally.

It’s nice. And if sometimes he half-wakes up at night to find Rin staring at him, watching him sleep, or if sometimes he catches the fond gaze directed at him over croquettes or tonkatsu or miso soup, then he doesn’t have to tell anyone about how he _hopes_ , so strongly.

_Wait_ , he tells himself, because he doesn’t want to rush things. He smiles to himself, watches the mere-inches gap between their fingers on top of the table, grateful at the subtle way Haruka places their plates of kare rice to block them from people’s view. He listens to Rin’s laugh, and draws his hand into a fist to keep from reaching out to twine Rin’s fingers with his own.

_There’s time_ , he tells himself. _Wait._

And before he knows it, four months have passed.

**\------o0o------**

He wakes up to the sight of Rin standing before the window to the balcony, awashed in layers of bright yellow tinted with orange—sunrays falling over his hair, highlighting its dampness and making it gleam, and Makoto reaches out hesitantly.

“Rin..?”

Rin is a lot like a dream.

Red eyes find him when Rin turns, fond and happy, but there’s a tint of sadness in the curve of Rin’s lips, a shadow that doesn’t belong, amidst the sun rays streaming through the window, bathing them both in pale morning light.

“Good morning,” Rin says, and it’s him who closes the gap between them to hold Makoto’s hand. Fingers twine together, holding on tight, and Makoto forgets to breathe. “Makoto.”

Looking back, perhaps he should have known that it’s time to wake up.

**\------o0o------**

Rin doesn’t leave a list of things he has to get today. Makoto only remembers that twenty minutes before lunch, so he goes to Haruka’s café because Rin might have forgotten to write it, but Rin isn’t there either.

Haruka shrugs when he asks. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” He pauses, considers the tiny frown on Makoto’s face, and continues, “I’ll bring you both dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, Haru,” he smiles. “I’ll have that agepan, please?”

**\------o0o------**

But Rin doesn’t show up that night, either.

He’s late, Makoto tells himself, even as he opens the door to let Haruka in. Additional shift at the police station, perhaps, or something comes up and he’s busy cleaning things up. Family matters he can’t ignore. Workload that piles up because he’d been spending too much time humoring Makoto lately. Anything could happen—Rin is a cop, after all, his responsibility isn’t only to his superior but also to the community they live in. Makoto’s had his own share of selfishly hogging Rin’s time.

As the clock strikes nine, Haruka closes his sketchbook and throws Makoto a questioning glance. Makoto returns it with a helpless look, and Haruka rolls his eyes.

“Call him.”

And of all things, it’s those words that wake him up.

Call him. Makoto stares at his own phone, unblinking as his fingers hover over his call logs, mind suddenly buzzing with uncertainty and something too close to panic: he doesn’t have Rin’s number.

He feels Haruka’s fingers on his shoulder. “Makoto?”

And it’s like a slap. He doesn’t have Rin’s number. He’s spent four months hanging out with Rin, in a way he’d never done with any strangers before, letting him spend the night and sharing Haruka’s breakfast food, sleeping with their feet tangled as they’re sprawled on top of one another, touches that linger far too long to be casual, sharing straws and water bottles and even hashi—and he doesn’t have Rin’s number.

He doesn’t—he doesn’t know where Rin lives, either.

“Haru—“ his voice shakes, and belatedly, Makoto realizes that his fingers are shaking, too. “I don’t know anything about Rin.”

The pause hangs between them, heavy like lead, and Makoto could _hear_ Haruka search for words, elusive now that the realization crashes down on them both.

Then after a long, long time, Haruka opens his mouth, apology thick in his words.

“Me neither.”

**\------o0o------**

Rin doesn’t show up the next day, either.

Or the next.

And Makoto sits down on the couch, mouth pressing against his palms, and thinks back to the things Rin told him—anything, anything at all—and remembers jokes about police academy, about odd jobs the police station sometimes gets, about the kind of alcohol he likes to drink when things are winding down. He remembers mentions of a sister, remembers stories about swimming in high school, remembers rants over how delicious kimchi is and how Makoto’s tongue is just unrefined.

He knows things about Rin, he supposes, no less important things, but not the things that would help him now. He isn’t sure what to make of that, either. Did Rin not trust him enough to share his personal information? Or did Rin, like Makoto, just simply forget, too content with laughter and simple touches over dinner?

He remembers the thought, hazy under the weight of sleep, nearly forgotten: _Rin is like a dream_.

Has he woken up, he wonders?

**\------o0o------**

It’s a week later before he comes into Haruka’s café for lunch, and sees that it’s deserted except for two police officers, heads ducked together as they talk to Haruka over the counter, and it’s the pale look of Haruka’s face that makes Makoto pause by the door.

Too late to back off, though—the bell overhead tinkles, and Haruka’s head snaps up. Makoto sees blue eyes widen fractionally, and feels something in his stomach sweeps low. He opens his mouth, nearly forgetting what he was about to say when the two officers turn to see him, and closes it again.

“Makoto,” Haruka says first; the curve of his eyebrows a sign of his distress, if not the way the last syllable of Makoto’s name breaks. His chin dips, ever so slightly, a gesture for him to come over, and that sends an inexplicable chill down Makoto’s back.

Dropping his bag on the closest table before moving towards the counter, Makoto lets his eyes search the officers—neat, pressed uniforms, straight stances that spell out _on duty_. He turns a questioning look to Haruka, whose lips quiver for a second, before pushing something in a plastic bag towards Makoto.

Makoto blinks.

An opened police notebook dyed in deep red—dried blood that crinkles the pages in the color of black roses. The tip of Makoto’s fingers shakes as he reaches out, carefully touching the plastic, eyes running through the familiar handwritings filling the pages with a list of groceries: carrots, ground meat, potatoes, flour, _treat yourself to two bars of chocolate_ , and then on the bottom left is the name and address of Haruka’s café, scrawled hastily judging by how the characters blur together.

But before that, under the list of groceries, signed the same way all groceries notes Makoto has received these past few months, is the three letters of Rin’s name.

“Makoto—“ Haruka begins, voice strangled, but Makoto’s ears buzz with the sound of his own heartbeat.

**\------o0o------**

_—one of the kids playing around there found trails of blood leading to the river—_

The only thing left is the pile of blankets on the couch, haphazardly thrown aside in the morning when Rin woke up. Nothing else is left. Nothing that signifies Rin’s presence in his apartment for the last four months—perhaps it’s because Rin is a neat person anyway, it’s not like he leaves the kitchen stained with oil or flour, and he always pushes Makoto to do the dishes right after they finished eating. But still.

Four months of spending almost every night together, and there’s no trace of Rin.

_—you know how the river’s current has been strong after that taifun a few days ago—_

He wishes Rin had been less neat of a person. Wishes Rin leaves handprints over windows and the bathroom mirror, or perhaps a pair of socks he forgot to bring home. A proof that he was here, other than the haphazard pile of blankets threatening to spill down to the floor. Makoto buries his fingers in them, grasps them tight, and thinks, _you were here, weren’t you?_

Like a dream.

_—we found this notebook by the riverbank. We’ll keep looking, but there’s no report of missing person, and there’ no legal identity found with the notebook—_

“Makoto,” Haruka says—too quiet, too hesitant. Makoto closes his eyes, brings the blanket close and stays like that for a moment. Just for a moment. Because there’s a sense of loss he can’t quite place; because Rin is a stranger, because Rin is no longer here, because he doesn’t know where Rin disappears to, and they can’t even have the notebook back.

Nothing is left.

He should just—

“He’s gone,” Makoto murmurs, chokes on the last syllable, feeling it break the second it slips out of his mouth. “Isn’t he, Haru?”

Whether Rin is alive or not, the fact doesn’t change.

Makoto’s lost him.

**\------o0o------**


	2. It Continues Like

The firefighter changing room is seriously dirty, Makoto thinks, half-amused, when he bumps into Nakagawa slamming his locker door shut. He’s not fast enough to hide the stack of porn magazine inside, though. Not that it would make any difference, considering right next to his locker, Asahi’s is wide open, shamelessly advertising the lingerie model throwing a wink off the poster plastered on the door.

Nakagawa throws him a sheepish grin. “Tachibana-senpai,” he greets, back straight, and Makoto swallows a chuckle in favor of reaching out to close Asahi’s locker door. “Welcome back.”

“You know Hanamura-san is going to raid this room any time soon,” Makoto says lightly, stepping over to where his locker on the corner is. Compared to the others, his own locker is just as much of a mess, but at least he doesn’t keep questionable magazines at work. Just a piece of note listing groceries, taped up on the back of his locker, a reminder of a fleeting dream. “She’ll gleefully burn all those things.”

“Mikoshiba-san wouldn’t let her…?” Nakagawa says uncertainly, and Makoto laughs, pulling his bag out of the locker and closing the door shut. He pats Nakagawa on the shoulder good-naturedly, giving him a look that clearly says good luck with that, and waves a hand. “I’m going home first.”

“Oh!” From the other corner of the room, Mikoshiba perks up, throwing him a sly grin. “ _Goukon_ , Tachibana?”

“Nothing like that,” Makoto shrugs, keeps his smile neutral and his eyes crinkled. “Just visiting a friend. Thank you for your hard work today, Mikoshiba-san.”

“Thank you for your hard work today, Tachibana-senpai!” Nakagawa choruses, followed by their other younger juniors cluttered in the room. Mikoshiba sends him off with a firm slap on the back and a loud laugh, and with that, Makoto disappears out of the changing room.

Mikoshiba lets his eyes trail back to his own locker—a pinup of a swimsuit model and cut pages of his favorite manga—and picks up his abandoned cell phone that was buried under towels and dirty shirts. He sighs. “Visiting, huh. Guess you could call it that.”

Nakagawa glances at him. “It has been five years, Mikoshiba-san.”

“It’s also none of your business,” Mikoshiba throws one of the dirty towels at Nakagawa, earning himself a surprised yelp and a disgusted groan. “People have their own way of dealing with loss. This is Tachibana’s.”

Nakagawa pulls off the dirty towel from his head, making a face at Minami who openly laughs at him. “I was just saying it’s been five years.”

“None of our business,” Mikoshiba tells him, one hand swinging to slap him on the back, and laughs boisterously as Nakagawa chokes on impact. “Come on, everyone! Get your ass moving before the kindergarten kids arrive; if I see one single inappropriate item out of your locker, I will set Chigusa on you!”

**\-----o0o-----**

It should be weird, that doing something once a year could feel like it’s a routine. Drop by the flower shop to buy a stem of white lily. Walk along the riverside and cross the bridge to the south side of the city. Pass Haruka’s café, stop until Haruka spots him outside the café and waves at him, and then continue down the road towards where the underpass crossing the river is, and follow the trail of wild flowers to the riverbank.

Put the stem of white lily where water kisses the soil, and wait until it takes the flower into its current, floating along the river, swaying in time with the afternoon breeze.

Makoto lowers himself and crouches, eyes following the flower as it bobs up and down, pulled along by the water. He never actually found out where exactly the police officers had found Rin’s notebook—just a vague mention of somewhere close to the underpass, and in the end decided that he’d just do it right below the underpass. It doesn’t—shouldn’t matter anyway; he isn’t even sure if his feelings ever reached Rin, back then or now. He doesn’t want to think too much about it.

He doesn’t say anything, either. Except at the very end, when the sun begins to hang low in the sky, and the first layers of orange and red spread out along the horizon.

“Bye, Rin.”

Every year. Every single year.

But he can’t ever make that a real farewell.

**\-----o0o-----**

His current apartment is bigger than his previous one—1DK might be unnecessary for a young man in his later twenties who lives by himself and doesn’t even cook, but Makoto likes the space, likes having the spare space for his twin siblings to sleep over on their semester breaks, or for Nagisa when he decides to not go back to the Interstellar Research Office because _it’s being too smart for me right now Mako-chan, I can’t take it!_ , or simply for Haruka when he misses the train home.

Nobody brings it up, because Makoto doesn’t either, but nobody misses the single blanket still thrown haphazardly over the couch. The closest it ever came up in a conversation was when Haruka had crashed at his place after a night of drinking with their friends, buzzed with alcohol when he drops himself on the couch, legs tangling into the blanket, and he’d looked up at Makoto and muttered, “Did you ever throw this in the wash.”

Makoto had laughed, reaching out to fold the blanket and drape it over the back of the couch. Haruka had simply watched, eyes following the corner of the blankets like it’d become the focus of his universe, and then he’d closed his eyes, and whispered, “He’s not coming back.”

Makoto had chosen not to answer.

It isn’t like he’s fooling himself. It’s impossible to do so, anyway, when the pang of loss is clear enough every time Makoto catches a sight of the blanket. But like the piece of note listing groceries taped in his locker, this too, is a reminder. One of two that’s left, and nothing else.

Rin was a lot like a dream.

Makoto just wishes it could have lasted a lot longer.

**\-----o0o-----**

On the second week of August when the sun hits its peak and the road feels like it’s burning even through his thick-soled shoes, Makoto has to run back from Haruka’s café in the midst of his lunch hour because one of the office building downtown had been set on fire. Most likely arson, Mikoshiba tells him over the phone, voice hurried and nearly drowned by the wailing sirene in the background, instructing Makoto to catch one of the fire trucks on the way to the office building since Makoto is probably closer, anyway.

Everything feels a hundred times hotter by the time they manage to handle the fire—a combination of the sun still going strong and the last wave of the heat of the flames, as well as their firefighter uniforms. He hears Mochizuki grumbling about maybe drenching themselves instead of the burning building, chuckles at the bark his friend gets from Mikoshiba before following the instruction to get back to the truck. The last of the fires have been put out, and they’re all covered in soot from head to toe.

“Alright, be very careful of weak constructions especially on the second level,” Mikoshiba calls out. “Tachibana, we’re going back inside for a last look. Make sure it’s okay for the police to get in and investigate. Oi, Shiina, you’re in charge out here.”

“Yes, sir!” Asahi pipes up lightly from the top of one of the trucks, half of his face covered in soot. Mikoshiba jostles Makoto from the side, and Makoto follows him, footsteps light as they carefully pick their way into the building. The construction itself is fairly new—Makoto doesn’t think they should worry about the integrity of it, but some parts of the upper floor had been wooden floorings with full glass windows, promising injury if they aren’t careful.

Mikoshiba clicks his tongue the second they reach the stairs, eyes following the traces of black metal and wood, making face at the burnt scent coming strongly from upstairs. “Well. They did say the fire began from the employee toilet upstairs.”

Makoto hums. “One of the girls we took down from the window reported a small explosion.”

“That’s the police’s job, not ours,” Mikoshiba waves a hand dismissively. “I’m going up. Stay here and make sure everything’s clear; be careful with those metal drawers, sometimes there’s fire trapped in there.”

“Roger that.”

The air is still thick with smoke, heat trapped in the crumbling corners as Makoto makes his way towards the archive room, making sure that all electricity is still cut and no spark is coming out of the stray, burnt cables. The floor creaks under his soles; the whole building seems to groan when he pushes aside the burnt table from the front of the archive room, and that’s when the gruff voice comes from behind: “I thought firefighters should have been finished by now.”

Makoto pauses, attention caught by the shadow that just steps into the lobby, and he turns. Police uniforms, a tall back that looms menacingly, and dark hair peeking out from underneath the cap. “We’re making sure it’s safe. You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

A snort and a smirk. “I wanted a closer look before our superior comes to ruin the day,” with a sharp gesture of his head outside indicating where Asahi is, he continues, “The one in charge outside said I could come in only as far as the lobby.”

Makoto smiles, shaking his head. “He’s not supposed to let any of you in before we’re done.”

“I heard the fire started from the second floor?” the cop strides casually towards the stairs, eyes considering the burnt railings. “Looks bad from here.”

“There was a report of a small explosion,” Makoto answers dutifully. “Our chief is still up there. He’d be furious if you go up now, so—“

“Nah, I just wanted a closer look,” the cop pulls down his hat, turning away from the stairs and heading back towards the entrance. He gives Makoto a once-over, nodding in a silent apology for having intruding, and walks back out.

And before Makoto could turn back towards the archive room, another voice rings—familiar, too familiar, even after five years—and brings the world into a halt: “Oi, Sousuke! Don’t fuck around now, you—“

Makoto’s step stutters into a complete stop that jerks his whole body backwards.

Impossible.

Completely impossible.

And yet, something in him screams, over and over again, and like five years ago, Makoto feels the haze of dream, settling in, sending his pulse buzzing in his ears as he slowly, slowly, forces his limbs to work, to turn around. It can’t be, he thinks, eyes wide and chest tight, but something in him shifts, a chant nearly forgotten, a syllable that brings his legs to move, to cross the lobby and close the distance to the entrance.

_Rin_ , he thinks, forgetting to breathe. It can’t be Rin. But.

_Rin_.

And there, under the scorching summer sun that makes the red strands almost blinding, a beautiful contrast against the navy blue of the police uniforms and the haze of gray and smoke, Matsuoka Rin stands, one hand in his pocket and another fanning his cap inches below his chin. Familiar lines and set of shoulders, sharp teeth flashing in a grin, confident eyes taking everything in.

_Rin_.

“Rin,” Makoto breathes, almost reverently and remembers the single blanket draped over his couch at home—a reminder of a dream long past, a dream he awakened from too fast. And yet, bright as Makoto remembers him to be, there Rin stands.

There Rin stands—eyes finding Makoto with a confident smirk that Makoto almost doesn’t recognize, steps long as he crosses the yard and raising one hand, and Makoto could only think, _Rin_.

“Hey,” Rin says, tilting his head ever-so-slightly, a gesture so familiar Makoto nearly loses his breath. “One of the firefighters? Thank you for the hard work.”

Makoto’s brain halts.

“What?”

Rin blinks at him, one eyebrow going up, but the smirk doesn’t fade.

“Name’s Matsuoka Rin. We’ll be troubling you guys today.”

**\-----o0o-----**

Matsuoka Rin. One of the two transfers from Tokyo who had just arrived a week ago, assigned to the koban just down the road by Haruka’s café. Twenty-six years old, born in Iwatobi but moved to Tokyo after his Dad, who was also a cop, was killed in the gunfight at the kidnapping incidents almost twenty-one years ago, and this is his first time coming back to Iwatobi ever since he left it when he was a toddler.

Or at least, it’s what Kisumi tells him. The pink-haired cop’s gone to join his friends in the fire investigation, now, after his exuberant greeting to Makoto earlier, which Makoto had used to pull him aside to ask about Rin. Not even a proper conversation, because they’re both on duty.

But still.

Rin is here.

_“One of the firefighters? Thank you for the hard work.”_

Or is _he—_?

“What are you doing, daydreaming on duty,” a light slap on his back, one that still sends Makoto stumble forward. His legs feel inexplicably weak, and he wonders for a second why he’s still standing, watching the police officers scatter around the burnt office building for their investigation. “Let’s go, we’ve got reports to make.”

Makoto glances back towards the building, catching the sight of red hair disappearing into the lobby, and feels something in his chest clench. It has been five years, he tells himself, but watches the tips of his fingers tremble anyway. What are the odds of a miracle? Rin has only been gone—no one ever actually told Makoto that he was dead, there were only speculations, it wasn’t like anyone ever found Rin’s body—

The thought brings a bile to his throat. Makoto swallows, looks back to Mikoshiba, and tries to keep his voice steady. “Mikoshiba-san, do you remember the officer who saved me, five years ago?”

His voice breaks in the last syllable. Mikoshiba gives him an odd look, one hand offering a bottle of water. Makoto takes it, if only to have something to hold on to, and to make his fingers stop shaking.

“The one we never saw again?” Mikoshiba replies, a hand running through his hair even as he dumps the whole contents of the bottle onto his head. Makoto watches the drops on the ground, mixed with soot and ashes, tries to keep his head straight. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Do you,” his breath catches in his throat, and he clears his throat, fingers tightening around the water bottle. “Remember what he looked like?”

“Nah. No way I could, I only saw him that one time.” The smirk on Mikoshiba’s face borders on teasing, but it’s careful. Too careful. Makoto understands why—gossip thrives in the station, what with their members and shift hours. “Unlike you.”

He forces a smile, brittle on the edges, and wonders how much of him Mikoshiba is seeing now. “I see.”

“Got something to share, Tachibana?”

One glance back towards the still smoking building. Makoto swallows.

“No.” He shakes his head, and then, more to himself, repeats, “No, sir.”

**\------o0o-----**

Haruka’s fingers are light over the sketchbook, tracing the faint grey lines crisscrossing the page, the first vague notions of what would transpire into forms later. There’s a cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake by his side, untouched, and Makoto recognizes that as a peace offering.

“Haru—“ he begins, and the name hangs in the air, unfinished.

Haruka waits. In vain, because Makoto can’t find the words—not for this. Not for something he isn’t even sure whether it’s a miracle or another dream, or perhaps just a coincidence altogether. He’s not sure if he could take it, if it’s just mere coincidence. If Rin isn’t Rin, if it’s just his wishful thinking, projecting Rin’s figure onto someone who happens to be a look-alike, with the same name, the same smile, the same—

The sketchbook closes with a soft sound. Haruka straightens up, turns to Makoto, and Makoto sees confusion in his eyes, too.

“Makoto,” he says, eyebrows tauting in the slightest look of hesitance, of _fear_. “I wasn’t sure.”

_Not enough to tell you_ , Makoto reads, in the tight corners of Haruka’s mouth. He nods, silently makes his way towards the counter, and sits in front of the plate of cake and the cup of coffee. There’s a sense of relief, of not being alone in this, and after everything today, Makoto feels like he might be able to think this through.

“He came here?”

“Two days ago,” Haruka replies, quiet, but his fingers worry the edge of his sketchbook. “He didn’t recognize me.” _Or anything else here_ , he doesn’t say, but the words are there anyway, hanging in the air, in the way only Makoto could snatch and understand.

Makoto nods. Then nods again, stronger, like he’s convincing himself. And finally says, “No one knew Rin.”

Haruka pauses.

“….Makoto?”

“No one knew him, Haru,” Makoto says, throat tight. “Five years ago—other than us, no one knew him. Mikoshiba-san saw him once, and that was it. Haru, in the hospital—he only came after visiting hours ended, he never got any calls, I never asked any of our friends at the police station if Rin were there, but Kisumi doesn’t—Kisumi said Rin’s only just transferred. He was not a cop here, Haru—not five years ago, and no one knew him—“

“Makoto,” Haruka cuts in, sharp, one hand reaching out to grip Makoto’s wrist, and Makoto stops dead, breath catching, eyes too wide as he looks up at Haruka.

He’s shaking. He could feel it. He doesn’t know how to stop.

“It’s Rin,” his voice shatters, and Makoto feels like crying. He closes his eyes, feeling it burn. “It’s him.”

God, please, let it be him.

Haruka’s fingers around his wrist tighten, and when he speaks, his voice is shaky. “Makoto.”

“It’s him,” Makoto repeats, lets his head falls on top of Haruka’s hand on his wrist, and shakes. He doesn’t want to think this through. He doesn’t want to figure this out—he wants this to be a miracle; that Rin is back, somehow, even if he doesn’t remember Makoto or Haruka, or whatever happened five years ago. That it’s Rin, who had saved Makoto’s life, cooked dinner because Makoto couldn’t, spent the night crashing on Makoto’s couch after a game night, ribbed Haruka over the counter about his café needing more spicy things on the menu, and—

“It’s him,” he manages through the silent tears, through the shaking. “I want it to be him.”

**\------o0o-----**

He should probably stay away. Haruka probably thinks the same—Rin doesn’t seem to remember them anyway, or anything resembling ever setting foot in Iwatobi at all. Besides, it’s better to watch from the distance, where they can’t really tell whether it’s Rin—their Rin—or not, rather than stepping in too close and finding out otherwise. What looks like a miracle might not be a miracle, after all, when one gets too close to it.

But then, one night when he goes out to get dinner from the nearby convenience store, he sees Matsuoka Rin across the road, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green, and their eyes meet.

Rin smiles. Throws him a light salute, even.

Makoto closes his eyes, thinks about how foolish he is to have thought he could have stayed away, and smiles back.

**\------o0o-----**

“You can’t cook, can you?” Rin eyes him in amusement, the corners of his lips turning up in an effort not to laugh at the contents of Makoto’s basket. “You know you’re going to die an early death if you keep eating these instant stuff, right, Makoto?”

His movement stutters. “Um,” he says, brain rewinding back the conversation, until Rin throws him an odd look. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, finding that his brain has completely halted except for—“You called me ‘Makoto’.”

Rin blinks, a moment of pause before the shade of red spreads rapidly across his cheeks. Makoto watches him scratch the back of his head, watches the way Rin look away in embarrassment, and thinks, oh.

“You’re the one who called me ‘Rin’ first.”

He blinks. “I do?”

“At the burnt apartment a few days ago. You called me ‘Rin’.”

“Oh,” he looks down, remembering the slip of tongue the first time he saw Rin again, and smiles. “I guess I did.”

"So I’m calling you ‘Makoto’ now, and we’re even.” Rin tells him, the slightest note of stubbornness underlining his voice. ”Anyway, you should put those back on the shelf, that brand of instant croquettes isn’t even good.”

Makoto feels his cheek heat up, but something in his chest warms even further. He ignores the sense of déjà vu, of having Rin lean over his basket to peek on his choices of pre-cooked convenience store and criticize him mercilessly. “Do you have a recommendation, then?”

Rin snorts. “None of this is better than home-cooked meal,” he says, drawing a laugh out of Makoto before he realizes it. “But hmm, let’s see—this fried rice mix is actually good—“

Makoto rolls his eyes. “You just say that because it has kimchi in the ingredients.”

“Hey!” Rin points at him, looking offended, but his eyes are laughing. Except then he tilts his head, confused. “How did you know I like kimchi?”

Oh. _Oh_. Makoto stares at him mutely, dragging the long moment, inexplicably torn between telling the truth or not. Which is ridiculous, because he should probably tell Rin—everything that happened five years ago, and maybe then Rin would remember. If it’s Rin—their Rin, if this Rin is really the Rin he’d lost five years ago, then Rin would remember.

Wouldn’t he?

“…you look like someone who likes spicy things,” he says, the lie slipping out almost too easily. He watches Rin’s eyebrows taut, an almost suspicious look, and adds, “is what I was going to say, but you dropped by my best friend’s café a few days ago, didn’t you? He said you bought the spicy curry bread.”

He is still a coward, after all this time.

The confusion in Rin’s face clears. “Oh! The one by the koban? Everyone at the station loves the café food—your friend is really good. His croquettes are _heavenly_.”

Makoto hums, lets Rin drop the fried rice mix into his basket, and follows him towards the register. “He’s having specials on croquettes tomorrow,” he says, pausing to snatch two cans of coke, lobbing one to Rin. “If you come for lunch tomorrow at the café, I’ll tell him to save some for you.”

Rin catches the can without so much as a fumble. “Seriously?”

“Promise.” Makoto smiles, and nods at the coke in Rin’s hand. “Have one, it’s my treat.”

A light punch lands on his shoulder, followed with a brash chuckle. Rin’s grin stretches, bright and challenging and so very _Rin_ , and Makoto is thrown back to the winning smirks exchanged over game consoles.

This is Rin.

He knows it.

“Tachibana, you smooth talker.” Rin huffs, one hand sneaking inside Makoto’s basket to retrieve the other can of coke before striding towards the register. “Meet you at the café tomorrow at lunch, then?”

Something in Makoto’s throat constricts, and he isn’t even sure what that is. Nonetheless, he smiles, the way he always does when he accepted Rin’s challenges, years and years ago.

“It’s a date.”

**\------o0o-----**

“It’s Rin.”

“Makoto,” Haruka says, his voice tinny on the other end of the phone, but Makoto could hear the hesitance. “He—“

“Doesn’t remember,” Makoto finishes, the words leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. “But it doesn’t matter. Haru, it’s him. I know it’s him. Don’t you think it’s him, too?”

Silence, stretching for minutes. When Haruka finally speaks up again, it’s with resignation, of being tired of questioning themselves. “I think it’s him, too.”

Makoto closes his eyes, grips his phone just that much tighter. “It’s him.”

“He doesn’t remember anything.” _About this town. About us. About you, five years ago._ Makoto hears all of these, in the way Haruka’s tone turns sharp, a clear warning that Makoto should know what he’s getting into. Except Makoto is done questioning himself, done with trying to keep his distance, because his opponent is Rin and without even trying, Rin always draws others to him. Makoto is never immune to that.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We can make new memories. More important ones. Ones he’d never forget, this time.”

And that is his answer. With it, he lets go. What happened five years ago shouldn’t matter, anymore. Not when Rin is here, now.

This is his _present_.

**\------o0o-----**

It doesn’t turn out to be a date—not that Makoto takes it seriously as a date; they have, afterall, just met, if he ignores what happened five years ago because Rin clearly doesn’t remember. The bell above the café entrance tinkles five minutes to one, and Rin shows up with the other police officer that Makoto saw entering the burnt building a few days ago. His name is Yamazaki Sousuke, and they’ve been best friends for a long time.

He catches himself trying to remember if Rin ever mentioned a Yamazaki Sousuke five years ago, and cuts the train of thought there. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, and watches Rin introduce Sousuke instead—who apparently has never tasted Haruka’s croquettes and voices his doubts, adding his own preference on croquettes, resulting in Haruka purposefully giving him and Rin burnt croquettes.

Rin stares at the croquettes in dismay, seemingly not sure whether he should throw a glare at Sousuke or Haruka. “Is this how you treat your customers?!”

Makoto laughs. “Haru, don’t be mean. Just give them the croquettes you’ve set aside earlier.”

“They’re only for appreciative customers,” Haruka replies almost haughtily, doesn’t even blink when Sousuke narrows his eyes at him. Makoto chuckles, crosses the threshold between the counter and the register to get into the kitchen and take out the plates of croquettes Haruka has set aside earlier. Haruka levels him a mock-betrayed look, but allows him to pass anyway, so Makoto counts that as a win.

Sousuke, on the other hand, eyes the plates suspiciously. “Are they really that good?”

“Stop having too high standards for croquettes,” Rin jabs him on the side. “They’re just croquettes, Sousuke.”

“You’ve been blathering about this café’s croquettes for a week, Rin, you built up my expectation—mmph!” wide-eyed, Sousuke stares up at Haruka, who apparently had just decided that stuffing Sousuke’s mouth with the croquette is the easiest way to get him to eat. The two stays glaring at one another for the next ten seconds, until Sousuke slowly works his jaw and chew, and then he says, muffled by the croquette dangling from his mouth, “Huh.”

Rin looks like he’s going to choke on containing his laughter.

“Isn’t it good?” Makoto says, extremely amused at the nearly smug look flashing across Haruka’s face before he turns his back to them and walks back to the kitchen. “Haru’s croquettes are really popular in this area, you know. If you’d come in around eleven thirty today, there’s always a line for it.”

Sousuke manages to scowl, lets Rin reach for the croquette dangling on his mouth with a laugh and eat it. Makoto watches, half-envious at the easy way Rin moves around Sousuke, half-missing the times Rin acted even more comfortably around him. But this Rin doesn’t remember—not about the nights he spent at Makoto’s, not about cooking in Makoto’s kitchen or sharing drinks as they watch movies, not about bugging Haruka in the café.

But that’s alright. Makoto’s decided, after all. If he has to start from a clean slate, if it’s Rin, he’ll do it. As long as Rin doesn’t go. As long as Rin doesn’t disappear again.

So he settles a smile on his face, and steals a croquette from Rin’s plate.

**\------o0o-----**

This Rin is Rin, but he’s also different from the Rin that Makoto remembers.

It’s still Rin, with his trademark Matsuoka grin who grumbles embarrassedly under his breath whenever someone praises his work. It’s stil Rin, who likes spicy things and kimchi and meat, still Rin who talks about his sister with absolute adoration in his voice, still Rin who speaks out what’s in his mind and ribs Haruka every other chance he gets. Still Rin, so easy to fall for, though Makoto doesn’t think he’s ever fallen out of love.

But this Rin is different. This Rin keeps a certain distance with Makoto and Haruka, in the way that the Rin five years ago never did, even when they met for the first time. This Rin doesn’t casually touch Makoto the way he would Sousuke, or the way Rin five years ago comfortably would. This Rin finds it difficult to read Haruka, too—which he makes sure Makoto is aware of, through amused complaints about how weird Haruka could be, or how Haruka should make actual expressions instead of just deadpanning at people, and Makoto can’t help but think, _but you used to understand, even when you first met him_.

And those are the little things that never fails to throw his resolve back.

**\------o0o-----**

Falling in love with Rin, to Makoto, has always been easy. It’s probably why he couldn’t stay away, when Rin came back into his life. He knows Haruka half-thinks this is a mistake, knows Haruka thinks this is only going to hurt him in the end, but ultimately, he knows that he wants to see Rin. Always. It doesn’t matter that Rin doesn’t remember, that Rin is slightly different, or that Rin doesn’t hold the same feelings he might have had five years ago. Makoto falls in love anyway, for everything that Rin is.

So he seeks Rin out. Hangs out at the café when he has no shift until Rin comes for lunch or coffee break, drops by the police station with excuses to see Kisumi and bringing treats from Haruka’s café. Passes the police station as much as he could in a day, stealing glances and waves at Rin when he catches him on duty. Inviting him and Sousuke for meals at Haruka’s, suggesting joint community programs between the fire station and the police station to Mikoshiba, hanging back after a day of firefighting until the police is done investigating just to walk back with Rin.

Too obvious, Kisumi tells him almost too enthusiastically, but the fact that Rin hasn’t rejected any of his offers and invitations, Makoto thinks he’ll take small victories. Even if it does mean enduring amused looks thrown at him by Sousuke and the other cops, on top of Haruka’s fond exasperation.

“We should have a game night,” he suggests, one afternoon when Sousuke and Rin crash at Haruka’s café after a round of patrolling the area, and Sousuke’s mulling over the lack of arcade in their small town. “I could be a pretty good challenge for you both. Right, Haru?”

Haruka doesn’t even pause in polishing his counter. “I guess you did break my highest score the other day.”

“Huh, really,” Rin says, eyes dancing as he leans forward onto the counter, resting his chin on his palm as he considers Makoto, in a way Makoto would have sworn is flirting. He doesn’t dare hope, though, not yet. “RPGs?”

Makoto shrugs. “I’m pretty good at it, but I like combat games better.”

“Shooting games?” Sousuke raises an eyebrow, and Makoto beams at him. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a gamer, Tachibana.”

“It’s one of the things I have confidence in,” Makoto answers, and watches Rin’s eyes spark with interest. Something in his heart warms up almost instantly, and he can’t suppress the smile. “My apartment’s big enough to fit all of us for a weekend all-nighter game night.” He pauses, then adds hastily, “if you both want to come.”

“Eh, why not? It’d be great,” Rin says, enthusiastically elbowing Sousuke, who chooses to hide his interest behind his glass of coke. “We’ll come over around seven, if you don’t mind.”

Makoto nods happily, glances up at Haruka when he passes by. “You’re coming, right, Haru?”

Haruka levels him a wary gaze. “I’m not cooking dinner for four.”

“No, of course not!” Makoto makes a face, _that’s not why I want you to come and you know it_. Haruka raises an eyebrow, amusement in the lines of his face. “I’ll order pizza or something, you can—“

"Or I can cook,” Rin says lightly, and Makoto’s voice dies in his throat. “I take it we shouldn’t trust Makoto in the kitchen, right? I can cook—“ at the face Sousuke makes, he shoves his best friend to the side. “Shut up, Sousuke, you don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to cook,” Sousuke shrugs. “You’re alone in this responsibility.”

“Shut up.” Rin grins, before turning back to Makoto. “You guys alright with stew?”

Just like that, and Makoto finds himself looking forward to the next Saturday night the way he never has been before.

**\------o0o-----**

Seeing Rin move about in his kitchen again is… weird, to say the least.

“Can I help with anything?” is what comes out of Makoto’s mouth every five minutes, whenever he swings by the kitchen to get drinks, snacks, or just checking in. Every time, Rin bats him away with a grin, elbowing him out of the way or shushing him back out of the kitchen. There are only a handful of times when Rin actually calls him over, asking where he’d put the spices or the pans or the knives, so most of the time Makoto just sits and glances at the kitchen from time to time, listening to Sousuke and Haruka trying to beat each other at a fighting game.

“You sure you don’t need help?” he calls out, again, and hears Rin’s laughter.

“No—wait, actually—Makoto, where did you put the bowls?”

“I’ll go get them.” Rising to his feet, Makoto makes his way back to the kitchen, leaving behind Sousuke and Haruka’s banter—“Stop mashing buttons and play fair, Yamazaki.” “Mashing buttons is my play style—fuck, neat, how did I do that again.” “Go die.” “You first.”—and reaches up to the upper kitchen cabinets to pull out the fancy bowls his mother once sent to him. He sets them on the kitchen counter, four black stew bowls with sakura petals motif around the rim.

He hesitates, considers the small dining table he owns. “Should I set the table?”

“Aren’t we just going to eat in front of the TV? Anyway, uh,” Rin waves him over, gesturing to the bubbling stew he’s stirring, “be my tester.”

Makoto chuckles. “I’m sure it tastes great,” he says, because he knows that Rin is pretty good in the kitchen, even if he’s not as good as Haruka. He takes a sip from the ladle, lets the warm soup slide through his tongue and down his throat, and pauses.

It’s quite spicy. Not so spicy that he can’t handle it, but it’s—

“What do you think? Too hot? I’m not sure how much you guys could handle but—Makoto?”

—different. It’s not the taste he _remembers_.

“It’s spicy,” he says, only half-aware of hearing his own voice—it sounds muffled. Something in his chest is twisting, a steady, building pain. “Not—sweet at all…”

Rin’s snort, when it comes, sounds far away. He’s dimly aware of Rin taking away the ladle from his hand, his fingers lingering against Makoto’s own, but it isn’t something Makoto could process, now. “Well, yeah—I really like spicy food, so I don’t really cook for others that much. This is the way I usually make it for myself.”

His breath sounds loud in his ears. And he remembers, five years ago: _Good to know our tastes match_.

“…Makoto? Are you okay?”

“Huh?” He blinks, flinches at the touch on his shoulder and draws away—since when did he have his hand covering his mouth? He looks at Rin, wide-eyed, and Rin looks back at him, clearly surprised, though it rapidly changes to a look of worry. “I’m—okay, I’m—“

“Makoto?” Rin is reaching out again, and Makoto stumbles back a step, avoiding the touch. The back of his eyelids sting, and the pressure in his chest is climbing up his throat, making it hurt, and it’s hard to breathe. “Makoto, you don’t look okay—“

“I’ll just—“ he nearly trips over his foot, and his elbow knocks the assortment of ladles down. They hit the floor with loud clanks and clatters, one after another. “I’m going to—toilet, I’ll be back soon—“

He bolts. Runs past a confused-looking Sousuke on the threshold of the kitchen, past Haruka who is looking at him in alarm, a silent, worried glance overlaid with questions, and slips into the toilet—one hand still over his mouth, pressing hard—and locks it.

_How do you know I like it with a hint of sweet?_

_Good to know our tastes match._

He slides down to the floor and shakes.

**\------o0o-----**

It doesn’t matter, Makoto tells himself, and comes back out with a reassuring smile, to the baffled looks of Sousuke and Rin, and the worried silence Haruka holds.

It doesn’t matter, Makoto tells himself, and doesn’t give Rin the same blanket he’s kept for five years, giving him another one, and resolutely washes it in the morning when Rin and Sousuke have gone home. Haruka doesn’t say anything, either, just silently washes the dishes and helps him clean up the mess his apartment is in, all nooks and cranny, until Makoto stops by the window and lets himself cry.

It doesn’t matter, Makoto tells himself, the next time Rin comes over to the café waving two tickets to the new movie premiere on the next prefecture. Sousuke can’t go, he complains, and Haruka shakes his head first, leaving Makoto to accept the invitation. Rin beams at him, his smiles happier and wider, his arm brushing against Makoto as he rises to leave, and tells him to meet up at the station at nine in the morning because _it’s a date_.

It doesn’t matter. It’s still Rin. It doesn’t matter, because Makoto is in love, and he can learn to love parts of Rin that is different, too. It doesn’t matter, Makoto thinks, when Rin meets him at the station with the slightest shade of red across his cheeks, when they sit that much closer in the train, when they decide to share a bucket of popcorn and a large-sized coke, or when Rin’s fingers keep brushing against Makoto’s own in the popcorn bucket—knuckles and palms and sometimes, fingers hooking.

“Think we’ll have time for dinner before going back?” Makoto ventures after the movie ends, and Rin looks up at him with the same smile he’d given Makoto five years ago, when Makoto offered for him to stay the night.

“Sounds great.”

**\------o0o-----**

Makoto learns. Things old and new—Rin’s favorite things, Rin’s family, Rin’s history with Sousuke. He learns of the parts that sets this Rin apart from the Rin five years ago; learns to catch the subtle changes in RIn’s gestures as he opens up bit by bit, as he grows more comfortable around him, around Haruka, around their small town. Learns to treasure them, no matter how small they are: the touches exchanged, the wider grins and smirks, the mischief that accompanies them sometimes.

He likes to think Rin is learning, too. Learning to read Haruka little by little—whether Haruka is actually serious or messing with him, or what words Haruka let hang in the air. Learning to not tense up when Makoto pats him on the shoulder, or which drinks Makoto like, which games he shouldn’t challenge Makoto at, or what would spook Makoto completely. Learning where Makoto put the spices, the plates and the bowls, the cups and cutleries, the literatures and the CDs. Learning to accept Makoto around him, comfortably—the way he did five years ago without even trying.

When the sakura trees bloom in canopy of pink and the wind breezes them off like it’s raining petals, Rin laughs and reaches out to flick away a petal stuck in-between Makoto’s unruly strands—faces too close, their mingling breath tinted with the scent of sake as their friends make merry all around them as all flower-viewing festivals should be—and Makoto says, slowly, “I love you.”

Rin pauses. Tilts his head almost in wonder, but his eyes are warm, and so is his palm against Makoto’s cheek.

“How much did you have?” he murmurs, the corners of his lips tugging up, fingers finding Makoto’s own, curling around the can of beer Makoto is holding. Makoto laughs, low, feels Rin’s breath falling onto his nose, and closes his eyes.

“Not enough?”

“Mm,” Rin says, his words dancing on Makoto’s lips. “We’ll do this all over again when we’re both completely sober.”

And then he presses their lips together, and Makoto almost sobs in relief.

**\------o0o-----**

Five years ago and now.

“I love you,” Rin says, forehead pressed against Makoto’s shoulder, and Makoto never ever wants to let him go. Never. “Go out with me?”

Makoto laughs. Five years ago and now, it doesn’t matter. It’s Rin.

“I asked you first,” he whispers against Rin’s lips, and swallows Rin’s indignant yelp.

**\------o0o-----**


	3. It Doesn't Exactly End Like

“Hey, Rin?”

Rin groans, low in his throat, a clear protest that Makoto had let go of his cock in favor of speech. Makoto chuckles, peppers kisses against Rin’s thigh in apology, before resting his chin on top of Rin’s knee. His thumb glides over the unblemished skin of Rin’s leg, almost curiously, before his brain catches up with what he was thinking earlier. “Didn’t you have a scar here?”

“What are you talking abo—“ Rin’s voice catches when Makoto’s finger digs ever so slightly, nails grazing lightly, and he retaliates by dragging his toes down Makoto’s back. Makoto’s brain short-circuits for a moment, noticing a bit too late that Rin’s pulled him close until they’re pressed flush, Makoto’s face pressing against Rin’s crotch.

Makoto chuckles. “So impatient.”

“Get to work, Tachibana,” Rin sends a smirk down his way, fingers running through Makoto’s hair, dragging nails down Makoto’s nape. An invitation Makoto simply can’t ignore. Especially not with the way Rin is looking at him, eyes hooded and hungry, like he can’t have enough of Makoto—and Makoto sets back the question nagging his mind earlier. It doesn’t matter.

Rin is here, in his arms. Nothing else matters.

**\------o0o-----**

He’s exchanged his single bed with a double one three months after they started going out—a decision made after one too many pointed looks from Haruka, who’s walked in on them half-naked on the couch the morning after several times without so much as batting an eyelash. He has to admit that the double bed is nicer, because it means Rin could sleep with him on actual bed instead of him crowding into the couch because Rin wouldn’t take the bed. Cuddling is always nice. Makoto likes cuddling.

“Mako-chan,” Nagisa says, twirling his spoon before digging into his parfait, looking amused. “I don’t think you still reserve the rights to be in cloud nine after being a couple for the last nine months.”

Rei’s spoon tinkles against his cup of tea as he stirs lightly, directing a chiding look at Nagisa. “Nagisa-kun, let him be, it’s almost their monthiversary, and besides, he’s not that bad—“

Makoto sighs, almost wistful. “I should probably buy roses.”

Nagisa raises his eyebrows at Rei, who looks back at Makoto, and says in resignation, “Okay, so he kind of is that bad.”

“What you need to do, Mako-chan,” Nagisa leans forward, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Is ask him to move in with you.”

Rei nearly chokes on his tea. Makoto blinks, pulled away from blissful ignorance of the world, and stares at Nagisa uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“I said,” Nagisa repeats cheerfully. “You should ask him to move in with you.”

Makoto scrambles backward, nearly tipping off his chair if it isn’t for Haruka who passes right behind him, pushing him back to place. “What?!” he yelps, wide-eyed at Nagisa, who offers him an innocent grin. “ _Move in_ —I can’t do that, Nagisa, what are you thinking?”

"Why not? Rin-chan’s already spending most of the nights at your place.”

“He has a point,” Haruka hums, sliding a plate of pancake on the table clearly for Nagisa, judging by the amount of syrup and ice cream it "has. Makoto throws him a _not-helping_ look, before turning back to Nagisa and resolutely shakes his head.

“But you guys have been together for nine months,” Nagisa says around a mouthful of pancake. “Almost ten. And Rin-chan’s been staying over at your place since months ago.”

“Nine months…” Makoto hesitates—not that it’s not an idea he’s considered, once or twice. Briefly. Because he’s never sure what Rin would say, if he suggested it. “Don’t you think it’s still a bit.. fast?”

Rei places his cup of tea with a dainty cling on the table. “Every couple has their own pace, Makoto-san.”

Nagisa nods almost feverishly. “True, true! If it feels right for you and Rin-chan, who cares if you guys are gonna be ten months or three months? If you want to live with Rin-chan, you should just ask him!”

“Or if you’re not sure,” Rei adds, stirring in another dash of milk into his tea. “You can at least ask Rin-san what he thinks about it.”

The thing about Nagisa is that he has a knack of making things sound easy enough to do. And perhaps it is—as simple as suggesting it to Rin, that is. Rei is right, he doesn’t have to ask Rin right away. Suggestions, perhaps, feeling out how Rin would react, how Rin would feel if he were to move in with Makoto. And maybe start looking out for a new apartment—that would also take a while, so Rin would have time to think about it, or change his opinion if it comes to it.

The door tinkles as it swings open, signaling a new customer coming in, taking everyone’s attention towards the entrance. Rin slips in, dragging his half-wet umbrella behind and shaking it before putting it in the corner. There are damp spots on his shoulders where raindrops probably caught him unaware, but it’s only drizzling outside, not enough to actually drench anyone. The redhead looks up, grinning at the sight of his friends all in one table, and waves.

“Rin-chan!” Nagisa sing-songs, waving his fork back at Rin, beaming bright enough to replace the sun. “Where’s Sou-chan?”

“On patrol. We’re doubling our patrol shifts now since we’re working on that kidnapping case.”

“Sounds hard,” Nagisa taps the fork against his plate, and his grin returns full force. “Come here and have pancakes!”

“Unlike some people, I prefer to have actual lunch meals for lunch,” Rin says, amusement thick in his voice as he makes his way over. His fingers skitter across Makoto’s shoulders as he slides onto the chair next to him, a silent greeting that makes Makoto hide a pleased smile behind his cup of coffee. “Haru, don’t you think you should feed him less sugar?”

Nagisa pouts. “Rude. Haru-chan’s breakfast food are the best!”

“He ate an actual sandwich earlier,” Rei says, crossing his arms across his chest and sighs. “But then again he also ate the matcha brownie parfait and two bars of chocolate he bought and the box of taiyaki I brought him..”

Rin makes a face at Nagisa. “How are you not dying of diabetes yet.”

“The taiyaki was really good,” Makoto adds almost sheepishly, laughing when Rin swats at him for coming to Nagisa’s defense. “Even Haru likes it, right, Haru?”

The café owner, already striding back towards the counter to deal with two teenage girls waiting in front of the register, shrugs. “I can do better.”

“Taiyaki, taiyaki!” Nagisa starts chanting, to the background of Rei’s defeated sigh, and Rin twists on his seat to give Haruka a pointed look. “Stop encouraging him, Haru.”

Haruka makes an aborted sound that might have been a snicker, before focusing on his customers. Rin shakes his head and turns back, shifting closer to Makoto somehow as he flicks the specials menu often—Haruka designs the specials menu himself, draws them every time he puts something new on or shuffle them, putting an interesting spin even for the regulars.

“You know, Haru,” he calls out, waving the menu at Haruka who had just seen his customers leave. “You need to have more spicy food on your repertoire. I can’t just keep shuffling the same three meals every time I come here for lunch—“

“You like them a lot though,” Makoto points out, laughing, and Rin elbows him lightly on the side. “Ow.”

“Don’t take his side,” Rin elbows him again, and Makoto catches his arm, slides his had down until he finds Rin’s palm and interlaces their fingers together in a playful attempt to mollify his boyfriend. He grins at Rin’s half-hearted huff, muffles his chuckle as Nagisa starts low-key whistling at them.

Haruka just pauses on his way back to their table with a glass of coke for Rin in hand, one eyebrow raised in amusement, his line of sight pointedly fixed at Makoto’s and Rin’s joined hands before traveling up to their red faces. _Really_ , Makoto reads in the way his other eyebrow raises, and has to swallow another bouts of laughter when Rin throws a look at Haruka and says, “I can _hear_ you judging, Haru.”

“Get a room,” Haruka replies lightly, the corners of his lips tugging up, and puts the glass of coke in front of Rin.

**\------o0o-----**

Rin kicks his ass at the new shooting game Makoto bought the other day. It doesn’t matter that Makoto keeps getting distracted on how close Rin’s foot is to his crotch and how Rin keeps wriggling it—Rin still counts it as a proper victory even as Makoto whines in mock-frustration: “Riiiin, you’re cheating!”

He earns himself a Matsuoka-patented smirk. “Not my fault you’re so easily distracted, Tachibana.”

“So unfair,” Makoto complains, and wriggles to free himself from the weight of Rin’s foot. There’s a moment of amused laughter filling the spaces between them as Makoto gets himself tangled in the controllers’ cables, before Makoto decides to just wing it and flops sideways on top of Rin, his cheek mushed against Rin’s shoulder, nose bumping against Rin’s chin. Rin laughs harder, pushing half-heartedly at Makoto’s bulk, but doesn’t make any actual attempt to escape.

“Makoto, what are you? Five?”

“Sure, if it gets you where I want you.”

“Dork,” the word drips of fondness. Makoto feels Rin’s fingers rest upon his nape comfortably, limbs relaxed as he stretches under Makoto, legs sprawling on the couch and tangling with Makoto’s own. It’s been a slow Sunday afternoon—they’d spent the whole morning in bed, sleeping in waking up for slow morning sex before drifting off again until Makoto’s stomach had protested loudly for being ignored. Rin had fixed them lunch, and they’d been sprawled on the couch the whole dat after, watching movies and playing games and lazing around, cutting the outside world and making a bubble that is only for the two of them.

Makoto closes his eyes, remembering Rei’s advice the other day. Moving in together does sound reasonable. He should at least ask what Rin thinks—if Rin isn’t ready, that’s’ alright, too. Nothing is going to change if Rin doesn’t want to move in together, it’s not like he’d stop spending the nights and weekends at Makoto’s, at this point, or—

“Hey, Makoto?”

His train of thoughts halt. “Yes?”

“I’ll be going back to Tokyo for a few days the day after tomorrow.”

That gives him a pause. Slowly, Makoto extricates himself from the cage of Rin’s arms, settling in a position that doesn’t put his whole weight on Rin. He stares down at Rin, takes in his smile, his soft look. “I see,” he says, unsure about how he should take this. “That’s… sudden.”

Rin pinches his hip lightly, looking amused. “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back here right after. I haven’t come home since arriving here, and both my mother and Gou are starting to get mad that I don’t visit back.” He tugs at the edge of Makoto’s shirt, a silent invitation for Makoto to lean back down, and grins up at him. “Promise I’ll be back in time for whatever party you’re cooking up to celebrate our tenth monthiversary.”

“I’m not planning up a party,” Makoto protests feebly, follows the tug of Rin’s hand and lets himself fall back on top of Rin. Seriously, just because that one time he felt like spoiling Rin’s romantic tendency and had his whole apartment covered in flower petals for their fifth monthiversary doesn’t mean all his friends could tease him about it every month. Least of all Rin, who had been the one sniffling back then.

Rin digs his chin on top of Makoto’s head playfully. “Why don’t you consider it, then?” He laughs when Makoto retaliates by pinching his side. “Fine, alright, I’ll shut up.”

Makoto ignores the deeper part of him that stupidly says but _I like your voice_ , and asks, “When will you be back?”

“Four days at most. I have work as well; everyone’s still on alert for that kidnapping case, so I can’t take that many days off.”

“I’ll see you off at the train station.”

“No,” the answer comes too fast, too readily, but before Makoto could frown, Rin quickly adds, “I’m taking the earliest flight.” His fingers are making absurd shapes against Makoto’s back—reassuring, distracting. "You’re not even a morning person.”

“I want to, though.” Makoto props himself on the elbow and looks up in time to catch the tight line of Rin’s lips. “Rin?”

It disappears in a blink, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined it. “There’s no need, Makoto, it’s just Tokyo.”

“Then I’ll pick you up when you’re ba—“

“Sousuke said he’d do that, so there’s no need.” Rin cuts in quickly—his fingers are skittering up towards Makoto’s shoulder now, an almost nervous tapping that beats faster than Makoto’s heart. “You’d probably have your shift, anyway.”

There’s something in Rin’s tone that brooks no argument. Makoto stares, uncomprehending for a moment at the way Rin’s eyes avoid his own, at the way his fingers move restlessly against Makoto’s back, at the tension on his shoulders. He wonders if he should pursue it, but then Rin sighs and tugs on his shirt, pulling him down to press their lips together.

Makoto thinks he probably shouldn’t let this slide. But it’s only Tokyo, and he trusts Rin.

He lets it slide.

**\------o0o-----**

“Hmmm,” Hanamura Chigusa says, in response of Makoto’s fifteen-minutes worth of rambling, because it turns out he can’t completely let the thing slide. She tilts her head slightly to the right, the pen she’s holding taps against her cheek in a staccato motion as she considers Makoto very seriously. “Maybe he thinks you’re too—clingy?”

Makoto returns her gaze in dismay. “Is that what he thinks?”

“Maybe? I mean, everyone wants their own space once in a while,” her ponytail bounces as she nods to herself. “And according to you, you’ve been spending weekends and almost every night together, and most of the times you see him for lunch at Nanase-san’s café, which means he probably has little to no alone time? Maybe he needs to recharge.”

It makes sense. Makoto worries his lower lips—he does feel more at ease and relieved when he could see Rin, or when he knows where Rin is or when he’d be coming back. Even after more than a year since Rin came back into his life, there’s still a part of him that keeps waiting for Rin to disappear again, and that part only quietens when Rin is around. Perhaps, because of that, he’d been clingy enough to suffocate Rin, without him realizing it.

He sighs, putting his head on the table in a helpless gesture. “And here I was considering to ask him to move in together with me.”

Hanamura perks up, eyes wide. “You were?” She sounds excited.

“I thought it’d probably be too early for us, so I planned to at least,” Makoto waves vaguely with one hand. “Ask him. What he thinks about it. Moving in together, I mean. But I guess this kind of shows me that it _is_ too fast for us.”

He feels a hand patting the top of his head sympathetically. “Well, it doesn’t mean you can’t bring up the topic with him? Let him know you’re considering it?”

Makoto makes a noise like a ten-year-old whining about their siblings, prompting a light smack over his head as Hanamura tells him how unbecoming that noise is, coming out of a firefighter his size. He doesn’t feel his size, though—thinking about Rin, whether it’s five years ago or last year or now, always makes him feel that much smaller, that much more helpless and clueless, like he’s seven all over again, fingers fisting the edge of Haruka’s shirt as they watch the locals release lanterns on obon festival, scared of the memories of those who had died.

He supposes he’s still a coward, after all.

**\------o0o-----**

He tries suggesting it again—picking up Rin halfway to the airport, or maybe sleeps over at Rin’s place the night before his departure—and Rin, again and again, waves him away, refusing with an incredulous, “It’s just Tokyo, Makoto, I’ll be back in no time,” and Makoto would click his mouth shut.

He wakes up before his alarm clock rings on the day Rin leaves, feeling out of sorts, and tries to call Rin only to reach his mailbox. He frowns, because it doesn’t make sense, and calls Sousuke instead.

“It’s five-thirty, Tachibana,” Sousuke growls grumpily in answer, and before he could say anything, adds, “Rin left his phone here last night.”

He’s about to apologize for waking Sousuke up, really, but something else caught his attention. “Rin was at your place last night?”

There’s a pause from the other end of the phone, and Makoto could literally hear Sousuke’s mind going _oh fuck_. “Uhhh,” the sounds of rustling sheets, signaling Sousuke probably moving on his bed to sit up. “He.. didn’t tell you?”

Makoto isn’t sure how to answer. “No?”

"My place is closer to the station, so he crashed here last night and went out—“ a yawn cuts in, but Sousuke sounds more alert afterwards. “—early in the morning. And forgot his phone, the dumbass.”

“Oh,” Makoto stares at his fingers. “I thought he was taking the earliest flight.”

Another second of pause. “Oh yeah,” A quick response, like Sousuke just happens to forget it. “He changed his plans. Yesterday. Probably forgot to tell you.”

Or maybe just avoiding Makoto in particular. The thought brings something bitter in the back of his throat, one that he swallows hard before opening his mouth again. “Alright. Hey, do you think I could come with you when you pick him up?”

Sousuke snorts. “He’ll be back by train, too. It’s close, he doesn’t need anyone picking him up. Don’t worry too much Makoto.”

Right. Except he’s not worrying. He’s—Makoto isn’t sure how he’d describe his feelings, right now, except that the part of him that’s always waiting for Rin to disappear is stirring, restless, _scared_. He glances at the windows, eyes trailing over the sills like he could find something on them, and repeats to himself, _it’s only Tokyo_.

“Right,” he says, glad that his voice sounds cheerful enough. “Thanks, Sousuke. I’ll see you later.”

**\------o0o-----**

Rin comes back four days later with the brightest grin on his face, and kisses Makoto like he’s been gone for a year.

“You left your phone,” is Makoto’s first complain, because it’s the safest. It’s not _why didn’t you tell me that you changed your plans_ , or _why didn’t you want me to see you off or pick you up_ , or _why didn’t you contact me at all for the whole four days_. Rin gives him a sheepish grin and kisses him again, very enthusiastically tugging him down to bed, and Makoto gives in.

He doesn’t say anything because Rin doesn’t, either. Instead, he goes to Haruka’s for lunch earlier the next day, and says, “I think I’m still scared.”

Haruka’s eyes soften. “I know,” he answers quietly, putting three of Makoto’s favorite candies on his coaster. Makoto catches his gaze, catches the sad smile ghosting Haruka’s lips, and the _thank you_ he’s about to say catches in his throat as Haruka pats his hand twice.

“I think somehow,” Haruka says, “We’ll both always be. About Rin.” _You, even more so_ , hangs in the air, unspoken, and Makoto tries not to grasp the words, tries not to hear them.

His eyes slide close. “It shouldn’t matter,” he whispers, fingers closing into a fist against the smooth surface of the counter. “He’s here. It shouldn’t—“

He doesn’t continue. Haruka doesn’t push, either. He stands behind the counter, quiet, until he finally picks up the cloth he usually uses for polishing the counter and says, “We’ll learn not to be.”

_Somehow_ , Makoto hears.

He wonders how long that would take, and if he could learn to not be scared before Rin gets fed up with it and actually leaves.

**\------o0o-----**

In such a small town, being a firefighter or a cop means you’re the local hero, but honestly, Makoto forgets about it most of the time. It’s hard to feel like one, when, for example, the changing room lockers at the fire station is filled with posters of bikini or lingerie models, torn down almost monthly when Mikoshiba lets Hanamura Chigusa loose after the junior firefighters. Not to mention that most of the days his shift just passes rather peacefully, except for the occasional calls for them to help cats down the trees or getting things stuck on roofs.

The police force is pretty much the same, too. There will be cases that cause the patrol to double up, sometimes, buffing the security of their small town, but most of the time Rin curls in Makoto’s arms at night and tells him the story of the day: tourists losing their way, carelessly parked bicycles and their owners coming by the station to look for them with sheepish grins on their faces, small cases of thievery, the local brats making ruckuss or the occasional all-out brawl that’s big enough for someone to alert the police. Mostly, it’s paperwork Rin usually complains about, and Makoto laughs in sympathy because he has to do them, too, and paperwork always sucks.

So when Rin gets called out on a case the police have been on alert for the last three months over the kidnapping cases happening on neighboring towns, Makoto watches him jump off the bed snatching his uniform and getting dressed in amazing efficiency, he laughs because he remembers that Rin is one of their local heroes, and he says, “Go get them, Mr. Superhero.”

Rin turns to him, rolling his eyes fondly. “That’s you.” He bends down, dropping a light kiss on Makoto’s lips, before drawing away and salutes. “See you in the morning.”

“Be careful,” Makoto calls out, and sees Rin waving before the door closes behind him.

He’s not really worried. It’s hard to be, being in a town as small and safe as this.

And then he wakes up a few hours later to a call from Rei, sounding tightly wound up as he tells Makoto, “Rin-san and Sousuke-san got hurt. Haruka-san is on his way to pick you up, please come to the hospital soon.”

Makoto forgets to breathe.

**\------o0o-----**

Their town’s hospital is the university’s hospital, where Rei is teaching courses on pharmacist as well as doing his doctorate degree. His colleagues have probably seen him with Rin often enough for them to relay the news that they’d seen Matsuoka Rin admitted to the ER, and Makoto is incredibly grateful for that, because apparently Sousuke has been injured worse, and none of them could have called to notify anyone about getting hurt.

Nagisa is already there when Haruka and Makoto arrive, waiting on the hallway towards the ER, and he perks up at the sight of them hurrying down the lobby. He rushes out, meets them halfway and catches Makoto’s hands first, looking up with big, clear eyes, and says, “Mako-chan, calm down.”

There’s something in Nagisa’s tone that grounds Makoto better than his own feeble attempts all the way to the hospital has been. He swallows, reminds himself to breathe, and croaks, “Where’s Rin?”

“Still in the ER. Calm down, Mako-chan,” Nagisa pauses to squeeze Makoto’s hands as hard as he could. “He’s alright.”

Makoto’s world rounds to a halt. “He’s… alright?”

“Well, as alright as he could be, I guess? He’s alive, he’s conscious, he didn’t have to go through surgery like Sou-chan is—“

“Sousuke’s in surgery?” He pulls at his hands, tries to slip off Nagisa’s hold. “Can I—Can I go see Rin?”

“He took a stray bullet on his shoulder, but Rei-chan says he’ll be fine?” Nagisa shakes his head, squeezes Makoto’s hands again, and snaps, “Mako-chan, you’re not listening to me! I said calm down—you’re shaking!”

Makoto freezes. Nagisa’s eyes bore into him, commanding but looking scared at the same time, and he hears Haruka murmur, “Makoto, breathe.”

He does. He breathes, two shallow ones, and whispers, “he’s injured.”

“You can see him,” Nagisa says, each syllable clear. “You can see him, Mako-chan, but you can’t freak out, okay? You’re not supposed to be able to, but Rei-chan helped, and he promised that we’d be quiet.”

Quiet. He could do it. If he could go see Rin, he could calm down. He just needs to see Rin. Needs to stop being scared, needs to quell that part of him that’s been restless, because Rin is going to be okay. Rin isn’t going to disappear. He closes his eyes, takes two long breaths, and whispers, “Okay.”

Nagisa smiles. “Come on, then.”

Against everything white, with nurses running this way and that as they enter the ER, Makoto’s eyes find Rin—bandages peeking out from the hospital robe he’s wearing, blankets haphazard over his legs as he sits, staring down onto his own hands with an expression as vacant as Makoto feels right now. His breath catches in his throat, Rin’s name dying before it even reaches his tongue, and Makoto feels Haruka’s hand on his back, pushing him forward.

He moves. Counts the tiles under his feet, each one for each intake of breath. Tries not to fix his eyes on the bandages wrapping Rin’s chest, or slump of his shoulders, or how the blankets hang off the bed and no one bothers to fix them. A nurse pauses to let him through, her shoes a staccato noise that’s lost in the orderly rush of the room, and Makoto moves.

His feet stop when he runs out of tiles to count, and instead sees the edge of Rin’s bed.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t call out Rin’s name. Doesn’t make any noise. And Rin, noticing someone’s presence by his bedside, looks up very, very slowly, gaze finding Makoto’s own—a pause before recognition comes, before realization dawns, and his mouth opens.

“Makoto…”

Makoto bends forward, arms pulling Rin against him, and curls like he could turn himself into a cocoon around Rin. The edge of the bed digs against his knees almost painfully, and he closes his eyes, reminds himself to breathe, breathe, breathe, until Rin sighs in his ear, arms winding around him and pulling him to sit down on the bed, but never away.

Dimly, Makoto realizes he’s shaking, but he supposes that’s okay, because Rin is, too. He’s clutching at Makoto, nails digging through the shirt, and Makoto welcomes the sting, welcomes the reminder that Rin’s there, with him, alive, and not—

_Not a dream._

He buries his face into the crook of Rin’s shoulder, and tells himself not to cry.

**\------o0o-----**

Rei comes over two hours later bearing the news of Sousuke’s successful surgery, and Rin breaks down in Makoto’s arms. Makoto holds him, doesn’t say anything, but something in him that’s been coiled tight since Rei’s phone call a few hours ago slowly unwinds in relief—the restless part of him settling back down to sleep with a clear warning, _until next time, until next time_.

“It was supposed to be me,” Rin murmurs much, much later, when they’ve moved him to his own room and he’s leaning against Makoto, head heavy on Makoto’s shoulder, their joined hands on top of the blankets. On the other side of the bed, Haruka is dropping two bentou boxes onto the bedside table, quiet but ever-observant. “The bastard was aiming at me. He missed—it grazed my arm, got Sousuke’s shoulder instead.”

“It’s not your fault, Rin,” Makoto says, knows that it doesn’t help, knows that it won’t make Rin feel better. He raises a helpless look at Haruka, who shakes his head minutely. _He knows_ , Makoto reads in the tight line of Haruka’s lips, the sharp gaze and the way his shoulders slump a little. _He knows it’s not his fault_.

Rin’s fingers in his own tremble.

**\------o0o-----**

Sousuke is awake and sitting when they all finally get permission to visit him in his room. They file into the room and Sousuke turns to look at them, and the first thing he says is, “I will punch you in the face.”

Rin looks torn between guilt and affronted, but it’s Makoto who voices the dumb, “Huh?”

“Fucking dumbass—“ Sousuke gestures at Rin with his good arm, looking livid. “Was supposed to stand by and not go after the bastard, but no, he got too angry—“

“You were shot!” Rin protests, but Sousuke goes on, talking over him like Rin hasn’t just yelled.

“And jumped out and grappled with the bastard, got cut open, and no one could risk to shoot at the bastard because this dumbass was right there on top of him—“

Makoto looks at Rin in horror, wide-eyed. “Cut open?!”

Rin glares at Sousuke. “He fucking shot you--!”

“And got flung away off the window of a second floor, for fuck’s sake, you were lucky that tree was there, how many bones did you break—“

“None, I only fractured my ribs, asshole, I can’t believe I worried about you—“

“Dumbass,” Sousuke finishes, matching Rin’s glare with his own, and then opens his arm. “Here.”

Rin huffs. “I will punch you on your shoulder,” he threatens, but moves into Sousuke’s reach anyway, arms winding carefully around his best friend, an awkward one-armed hug that speaks of relief even more than the way Rin is clutching at Sousuke’s good arm.

“Stop getting thrown off the window,” Sousuke tells Rin, and Rin blinks back tears, a grin spreading slowly across his face.

“Stop getting shot,” he shoots back.

**\------o0o-----**

Makoto gets back to work before the week ends, to a hearty slap on the back by Mikoshiba who slides next to him on the bench and says, “So, I heard about your sweetheart.”

Makoto laughs. There’s something about being with Mikoshiba that make him relax, like having an older brother he never has. “Mikoshiba-san, no one says sweetheart anymore.”

“Your boyfriend, then,” he gets jostled good-naturedly—Mikoshiba is one of the few firefighters whose bulk is probably bigger than Makoto. “He’s okay? What happened anyway, did he get shot?”

So Makoto finds himself relaying what Sousuke had ranted the moment he saw Rin after the incident: Rin jumping out and grappling with the kidnapper, and ending up flung of the window on the second floor. Mikoshiba laughs, much like a father would at the antics of his children, patting Makoto’s shoulder sympathetically once he’s done.

“Sounds like a handful, your boyfriend.” Despite the sympathetic words, Mikoshiba’s grin drips with approval. “One hell of a guy, huh? It befits our local hero.”

Something in Makoto soars at the word. The reminder, he thinks, and his chest swells with pride, because Rin is his friend, his significant other, and he is _a hero_. He hums in agreement, somehow feeling a lot lighter about the whole incident. “It’s kind of easy to forget about that, isn’t it?”

“About how dangerous their line of work is?” Mikoshiba raises an eyebrow, then glances towards where Asahi is yelling and chasing Nakagawa around the locker room. He grins, and slaps Makoto on the back. “Same as ours, I guess. S’why you should make sure that you live with no regrets, Tachibana! Every day!”

Makoto winces at the force that nearly make him stumble forward. “Uh, no regrets?”

“Make sure they know you don’t take them for granted.” Mikoshiba ticks a finger. “Make use of the time you have. Say what you want to say. No regrets!”

He leaves with a boisterous laugh and another slap against Makoto’s back, striding into the locker room and shouting at Asahi and Nakagawa to stop being a kindergartener. Makoto stares after him, half-dumbfounded at the unexpected relationship advice coming from Mikoshiba, of all people, until he feels someone else’s presence sliding to the spot Mikoshiba vacated, and turns to find Hanamura grinning up at him.

“Say what you want to say, no regrets.” She elbows him lightly. “What was that about moving together?”

**\------o0o-----**

Haruka packs him a bentou box filled with both his and Rin’s favorite dishes, wraps the whole thing with a sakura-patterned furoshiki and says, “Consider this early moving gift.”

Makoto smiles hesitantly. “I still don’t know if Rin’s going to say yes, yet.”

Haruka rolls his eyes, and Makoto sees laughter in them, clearly directed at him. “Haruuuu,” he whines, taking the bentou box closer before Haruka could pull them back and change his mind about supporting Makoto in this. “I’m just not sure if Rin wouldn’t think it’s too fast or—“

“Makoto,” Haruka says, amusement and exasperation blending into one in his voice, and Makoto looks up to see his pointed look. “Just talk.”

“Why does everyone make it seem so easy,” Makoto complains, but his lips curve up in a smile, anyway.

**\------o0o-----**

Rin’s room is bathed in shades of deep oranges and pale yellows when he steps in. He pauses on the door, burns the image of Rin sitting up on the bed, a book in his hand, red strands tied back neatly, awashed in the late afternoon sunrays streaming through the windows, until Rin notices him standing there, unmoving.

He closes the book with a grin. “Hey, Makoto.”

Makoto smiles, tries put on some confidence he doesn’t feel. He raises the wrapped bentou box, amused at how Rin perks up at them. “Haruka sends this.”

“Bless him,” Rin makes grabby hands gestures, one that Makoto answers with a small chuckle as he closes the door behind him and crosses the distance between him and Rin’s bed. He drops the bentou box on Rin’s lap, watches as Rin unwraps the furoshiki enthusiastically, nearly dropping the two pairs of chopsticks when he opens the box to the exquisite sight of Haruka’s handmade bentou.

Rin’s grin is almost predatory as he offers a pair of chopsticks to Makoto. “You haven’t had lunch, have you?”

Makoto accepts it with a sheepish smile. “I went straight from the station,” he replies, then swallows at the rows of tamagoyaki and karaage inside the box. The octopus-shaped sausages peek out from between fresh green vegetables, and Rin makes a pleased noise as he fishes out a meatball, one that turns into a nearly obscene groan once he puts it in his mouth.

Makoto hides his smile. “Good?”

“You have no idea how bad the hospital food is,” Rin grumbles around another mouthful of rice, fishing out a croquette as does so. “Does Haru require human sacrifice every time he cooks because I might just start making one.”

Makoto taps Rin’s chopsticks with his own, chuckling. “Don’t be silly. This was a gift…” he trails off, something in his chest leaping to his throat unexpectedly. He swallows, then continues hesitantly. “An early gift.”

Rin laughs. “So he wouldn’t have to get me another gift once I get out of the hospital, huh? Sounds like Haru.”

“It’s not—not a gift for getting out of the hospital.”

He doesn’t actually realize that his voice has gone so quiet, or that he’s laying down his chopsticks on the furoshiki. What he notices is the way Rin’s chopsticks slow, hanging above the rows of tamagoyaki for a moment, before Rin’s voice reaches him: “Makoto?”

The tips of his fingers are shaking. Makoto swallows, tries to summon every ounce of confidence of courage he has, and begins to think maybe he never did have them. Going into a burning building is so much easier than looking up to see Rin in the face now. He’d never even brought this subject up before, never even asked Rin to consider it, he has no idea what Rin would say, if he springs this idea just like suggesting they should go on a date this weekend.

He sees Rin putting down his chopsticks as well, sees Rin’s fingers reaching out for his own before they close on top of his hands, holding loosely. “Makoto?”

No regrets, Makoto thinks, and remembers the sinking feeling of waking up to Rei’s phone call, the helpless feeling of having Rin not being here, with him. That one part of him stirs at the thought, restless and frightened, and it’s that part that finally gives him the boost, the way it curls uncomfortably in his stomach that makes him look up and catch Rin’s eyes, that makes him takes a hold of Rin’s hard, tightly.

“Rin,” he says, voice breaking once the name slips out, and he clears his throat, tries to calm himself down in vain. “H-have you ever—considered, uhh, thought about—about maybe moving in…? With me…?”

The question hangs heavy in the air. Rin stares at him, lips parted, like he’s not sure how to answer, and Makoto scrambles to add. “I mean, you spend most of nights at mine, especially weekends, and probably? At least? Half of your things are already at my place? I mean, I was thinking maybe we could find a bigger apartment, if maybe you want your own room or—or a bigger kitchen, and if we share the rent it should be affordable for us? If you want to! I’m not—I mean even if you think this is too, I don’t know, too fast, or you’re not comfortable yet with it, that’s alright too, I just want to let you know that the option is there, and I have been thinking about i—“

“Makoto,” Rin says, tone sharp, and Makoto nearly bites his tongue in his haste to close his mouth. He looks at Rin, wide-eyed and panicked, and Rin sighs.

“Why are you getting yourself so worked up over this,” he mutters, and then leans forward to peck Makoto on the lips.

Under the sunrays streaming in from the window, bathing everything in red and oranges and pale yellow, the shade of red acros Rin’s cheeks looks as if the sun light bleeds into his skin, painting him in a new color Makoto doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. But the grin stretching over Rin’s lips is familiar—confidence that Makoto doesn’t have, courage that Makoto can’t hope to have—and his hands in Makoto’s are a solid anchor, holding tight, _not a dream. Not a dream_.

Makoto’s lips part, the name slipping out in a wispy breath. “Rin…”

Rin’s chuckle is the tinkle of summer bell in his ears.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, too.” He leans forward, this time to press their foreheads together—the bentou box forgotten in favor of mingling breaths, of closeness. “Thanks for asking. Yeah, I’ll move in with you.”

Makoto closes his eyes, feels the back of them burn. “Once you’re out of the hospital?”

Rin hums, nose brushing against Makoto’s, and he feels the vibration to the top of his head. Makoto watches the shades of oranges dance over their hands, blinking in time to the motions of their heads, almost like a blessing, almost like _a promise_.

“Yeah. I’ll come home to you.”

**\------o0o-----**

Nagisa screeches for at least a minute straight when Makoto relays the news at lunch the next day at Haruka’s café. Rei reaches sideways to put his hand over Nagisa’s mouth, which turns out doesn’t work very well, as Nagisa just keeps babbling into Rei’s hand excitedly; “Mako-chan, oh my god, congratulations! I knew Rin-chan would say yes, I told you he’d say yes, didn’t I say Rin-chan would say yes, Haru-chan? Mako-chan congratulations! I’ll make sure to find you both a great moving in gift, I don’t know what yet but—“ and Makoto chuckles, Nagisa’s enthusiasm sending warmth through him in ways he can’t explain.

He’s lucky he has his friends.

“Nagisa-kun, you’re going to scare the customers,” Rei admonishes, but when he turns back to Makoto, it’s with a wide smile that’s almost identical to Nagisa’s. “Makoto-san, congratulations! This is a big decision, we support you fully, so please let us know if there’s anything we can hel—ugh, Nagisa-kun!”

Rei snatches his hand away from Nagisa’s mouth, looking half-exasperated and half-appalled at how Nagisa had just licked his hand in order to be free from it. Nagisa sends him a cheeky grin, turning to beam at Haruka when the older man slides his tall glass of strawberry parfait in front of him. Haruka turns to Makoto, reaching for the empty cup of coffee, and asks, “when?”

“Once he gets out of the hospital,” Makoto answers, smiling warmly, if a bit dreamily at the idea. “He’ll be coming home to my place, so I’m thinking to move the rest of his things to my place for the rest of the week.”

“We can help!” Nagisa and Rei chorus, as eager as the kids that visit the fire station sometimes, despite their age. Haruka taps Makoto once on the shoulder, a silent signal that he’s in, too, and Makoto grins, feeling the excitement grow, and isn’t it weird, when Rin has been spending so much time at Makoto’s place anyway? It won’t be that much of a difference, but the thought of Rin referring to their place when he says home makes him feel warm all over.

He gets Rin’s spare key and makes a habit of dropping by Rin’s small apartment after visiting him in the hospital. Nagisa is with him most of the time, his chatterings a pleasant background as they work on packing up Rin’s things—his clothes, his books, the things he’s accumulated since coming there, and the knick-knacks he brings from Tokyo. Rei drops by whenever he could, and sometimes he’d borrow the university car and drives everything that’s been packed all the way to Makoto’s apartment. Haruka brings them food if they happen to forget about the time and work through dinner time. He closes early every other day and goes with Makoto to see both Rin and Sousuke in the hospital, joining him and Nagisa on packing Rin’s things once they’re done.

Little by little, Makoto watches the boxes on his living room grow in amount. Some are labeled books, some are breakables, some are kitchen utensils and even spices. He doesn’t unpack them, yet—there will be time for that with Rin, later on, when he’s out of the hospital and the two of them could sit together, figuring out how to make space for another person permanently, how to adjust to the presence of someone else every day.

It feels like making Rin a permanent part of his life. Makoto thinks he’d like that.

**\------o0o-----**

It’s two weeks later that Rin opens the door to Makoto’s apartment in a strange anticipation despite the familiar motions he’s going through. Makoto is smiling, the curve of his lips almost lopsided and making him look adorably dopey. It’s an odd notion of beginning that they’re going through, in spite of everything familiar about the surroundings, and Rin steps into the room—their room—and takes in the whole apartment.

Nothing is changed. Except for the boxes that are obviously his, and several additions of furnitures that formerly belonged to his apartment. He smiles, glancing at Makoto, who’s closing the door behind them still with that lopsided smile, and god, Makoto looks so happy.

He lets his bag drop almost soundlessly to the floor and reaches out for Makoto. Like he always does, Makoto accepts, arms winding around Rin simultaneously as Rin closes their distance. He buries his face into the crook of Makoto’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent that is Makoto, and whispers, “I’m home.”

Makoto’s arms around him tighten just so.

“Welcome back.”

**\------o0o-----**

Makoto had enlisted Haruka’s help in cooking dinner, earlier, so all he has to do is heat them up. Rin grumbles over how he’s not an invalid and he could cook himself, thank you very much, but he’s also practically drooling at the sight of grilled chicken Makoto pulls out from the microwave, so Makoto grins and counts his winnings.

“This is fancy,” Rin peers at him from across the table in mock-suspicion, but his eyes are dancing. “Are we celebrating something?”

“Your release from the hospital,” Makoto says lightly, reaching up to the uppermost kitchen cabinet to pull out the bottle of wine that Rei had brought earlier. He sets it on the table, leaning his hip on the edge as he bends down to press his lips on the top of Rin’s head. “And a moving in gift from Rei.”

“You have excellent taste in friends,” Rin says, all grins as he tilts his head upwards and meets Makoto’s lips halfway. There’s an odd sort of anticipation underlining the kiss—a different sort from the usual anticipation of a good night that makes something in Makoto’s stomach stretches pleasantly. He pulls away, only for Rin to nibble at his lower lips insistently before finally letting him go.

Makoto swallows at the devious grin stretching over Rin’s lips. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Actual meal,” Makoto says, points at the table, and clears his throat when his voice comes out rough. The effects Rin has on him, god. “You’re the one who’s been complaining about the hospital food.”

The odd sense of anticipation fades away as they settle down to eat, washed away by the familiar presence of one another. They talk, about nothing and everything, and Makoto fills Rin in on the things that’s been happening around when Rin was stuck in the hospital. Their toes catch one another, almost always playful for it to have actual heat behind them, but somehow it sends embarrassment through Makoto when he tries to hold on to Rin’s toes for more than a few seconds. Which is weird, because he’s grown used to this, too—

He blinks when Rin ducks his head, catching the faint shade of red spreading all the way to his ears, and smiles. He’s not the only one, he supposes, and chalks it to the fact that it’s been a while since they last got to do this.

Makoto doesn’t even try to get in the shower while Rin is in there, later—opting to wash the dishes to the light background humming of Rin in the shower. He lets Rin get in the bedroom, lets Rin have the privacy before slipping in the shower himself. There’s only his stuff scattered around the sink and the edge of the bathtub, still—except for another dirty towel in the laundry basket that obviously isn’t Makoto’s doing, and he smiles.

Here, too, would be a shared space between them. Soon.

He gets out of the shower fifteen minutes later, padding out topless because he’d forgotten to bring a clean shirt, water still dripping slightly from his hair. Rin looks up from the couch, a sports magazine in hand, and Makoto fights the flush threatening to crawl up his face when he feels Rin’s eyes takes him in appreciatively.

Rin smirks, but his eyes are soft when he puts down the magazine and opens his arms. “Come here, Makoto.”

He obeys, settling down in the space between Rin’s knees as Rin reaches out for his towel, pushing Makoto’s head down slightly so he could towel the unruly brown strands dry. The motion, repetitive and comforting, quickly has Makoto close his eyes, and Rin laughs, amused. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Makoto rolls his eyes, lips tugging up in a small smile. “Tempting,” he says, but doesn’t say anything else. He lets himself be wrapped in Rin’s scent—Rin’s arms heavy and steady as they move, the sounds of Rin’s breath in rhythm with Makoto’s heartbeat, the cage of his feet, pressing against Makoto’s arm.

“It feels kind of weird, isn’t it?” Rin begins, the motions of his hands trailing off, and Makoto looks up. There’s a soft smile on Rin’s lips, one that seizes Makoto’s breath—Rin is beautiful like this; comfortable, unguarded, _trusting_. “We’re just doing things we usually do, and it’s not like it’s the first time I’m here, but—“

A hand rests on top of Makoto’s head, ruffling affectionately, before it brings their foreheads together. “Somehow,” Rin murmurs. “Just because I keep thinking about how this is home, now, it feels like—like the first time again. All of this.”

Makoto closes his eyes, remembering the earlier odd anticipation that hangs between them. “Yeah,” he agrees, brushes his lips against Rin’s—once, twice, thrice. He hears the soft slide of the wet towel onto the floor, feels Rin’s fingers running through his hair, hints of nails scraping his nape before Rin pulls him down and closes what scant distance left between them.

It leaves both of them breathless, once they pull off, and they should probably take it to bed, because as comfortable as the couch is, it’s still going to give them cricks on their necks the next day. There’s a reason why Makoto bought that double bed, after all. He mouths on the line of Rin’s jaw, trailing kisses down to his collarbone, and counts the tiny groans Rin makes, the sharp intake of breath he hears. Rin’s fingers skitter along his side, tracing absurd shapes along his hips as the other hand, palm-flat against Makoto’s stomach, climbs up to his chest, clever thumb finding a nipple, drawing out a gasp.

Rin laughs shakily. “Up your game, Tachibana.”

“Mean,” Makoto complains, but he does anyway. He slides a hand down, searching, tracing the length of Rin’s legs up to his knees before slipping under his boxers, pulling Rin’s thigh closer—

He pauses.

“Makoto?” Rin blinks, the haze of pleasure still thick in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Makoto opens his mouth, unsure how to answer. He can feel it, under his fingers—a jagged scar, wrinkling what should have been smooth skin, something that has been missing, except it’s just not—there. Not since—

“…six years ago…” he breathes, barely aware of Rin shifting underneath him, back straightening. He pulls away, turns to get a good look at Rin’s thigh—and there it is. The scar, jagged ans just as he remembers it, standing out like it doesn’t belong, like it’s carelessly pasted on Rin’s skin. He runs a finger along the scar, remembers Sousuke’s rant in the hospital, remembers _cut him open_ —

“You didn’t have this,” he says, voice shaky. His mind is a jumble of questions, of puzzle pieces not slotting into the right places. “You didn’t—“

“That’s from when the kidnapper cut me open,” Rin speaks, sounding calm and controlled, and Makoto kind of hates how he sounds like someone talking to a kid. “It looks worse than it actually was. It was pretty shallow, but still going to leave a scar.”

It’s rough under his fingertips. “But you had this—“ he croaks, eyes wide as he stares at the scar. Its jagged edge looks like it’s stretched, and he thinks I never got to see it properly, six years ago. Six years ago. “You had this scar.”

He doesn’t even realize that he’s shaking until Rin’s hands fold over his own, holding tight. Makoto looks up to meet Rin’s concerned eyes, and sees himself reflected there—pale, drawn, shoulders hunched, confused. Six years ago, his mind reels, rememberin Rin sitting on the couch, throwing him a teasing grin as he glimpses a look of the scar—and what did Rin say about it, six years ago?

“Makoto,” Rin says, each syllable clear, and Makoto’s attention snaps back to him. “I’m alright.”

Makoto opens his mouth, closes it, and finally chokes out, “Six years ago—“

Rin blinks. “What?”

“You had the scar,” he says, and he barely recognizes his voice just now, so brittle, breaking on the edges. “You couldn’t have gotten it because of the kidnapper, you had it. Six years ago. But then you didn’t have it, I didn’t think much about it, I didn’t—allow myself to think much, you didn’t remember anyway, but you had it, six years ago—“

He loses his breath, loses the trail of words crowding in his mind, and can’t quite seem to catch them back. He grasps at Rin’s hands and looks up—only to see Rin’s eyes slowly widening, to see realization slowly, slowly dawning, and Rin—

Understands.

Then his face crumples into frustration, and Rin snatches his hands away, burying his face into his palm, and whispers sharply: “Fuck.”

**\------o0o-----**

He pulls out the old blanket from the closet. Rin drapes it over himself, and then makes a face at Makoto. “Did you ever throw this in the wash?”

Makoto laughs uncertainly. “I never did,” he murmurs, voice small, if a bit defensive. “It’s the only thing I have left of you. Six years ago.”

Six years ago. Makoto watches Rin run his fingers down the fabric, as if he’s trying to retrieve the memories it holds. Then Rin looks up, one hand catching Makoto’s wrist, and pulls him down to sit back on the couch. There’s both determination and seriousness in his eyes that Makoto recognizes Rin reserve when facing work, and while this is different from an interrogation—he swallows.

“Tell me,” Rin says, and Makoto does.

And it’s curious, how well he remembers everything now that he’s reaching out for the memories. Like they’re filed neatly on the back of his mind, and all he needs to do is pull them out one by one, spread them on the floor like photo albums, and walks himself and Rin through the four months happening six years ago. _Like a dream_ , he tells Rin, and recalls the first time Rin visited him in the hospital, his police uniform as sharp as his grin, his presence a contrasting mesh of colors against everything white in the hospital. He tells Rin of the time he ate Haruka’s croquettes, the time when he started cooking for Makoto and how he made the stew just the way Makoto liked it, the first time their limbs tangled on the couch as they sleep the whole night carelessly to wake up to Haruka’s pancakes.

Rin listens attentively. He doesn’t say anything, not a word through Makoto describing the grocery lists he used to leave in the morning, or how they never met at work, or how he hounds Haruka about his menu needing more spicy things. He doesn’t say anything when Makoto stumble through that last part of the four months—Rin’s disappearance, the bloodied notebook, the cops that drop by Haruka’s café to let them know—only holds Makoto’s hands tighter.

“Then you’re back,” Makoto says, his throat tight. “And it was odd, because you weren’t—you. You weren’t the same. And I fell in love with you again. But you are, now, just like six years ago, and I don’t—Rin, I don’t understand—“

Silence falls between them, filled with unspoken questions and fears, and Makoto isn’t sure what else to say. Rin looks thoughtful, like he’s piecing everything Makoto’s said one by one, making a clear picture, and isn’t that ridiculous, when Makoto’s the one who’s been trying to do so and failing?

Then Rin sighs, shakes his head, and murmurs, “I only have one jump left.”

Makoto’s brain grinds to a halt. “Huh?”

Rin flashes him a nervous smile—the one Makoto’s learn to recognize that Rin has a secret he’s about to entrust to someone else. “This is going to sound really weird,” Rin begins, and Makoto watches him lace their fingers together, stalling for time, drawing it out. “And you probably won’t believe it, except you’d think that things would finally makes sense, and you have no choice except to believe it.”

“What are you talking about,” Makoto says, but Rin leans forward to press their lips together, a brief touch, and Makoto feels him pull away—from him, from the couch—and then Rin is light on his feet, padding across the room to where his bag is. He pulls out a small pouch from the bag, opening it even as he returns to Makoto’s side on the couch, and lets something—a wristwatch?—falls on the space between their thighs.

The accessory looks unassuming. Makoto reaches out curiously, turning it this way and that—a completely normal digital wristwatch, except instead of showing the time, the display only blinks the number **_1_** , and there’s no button to set the time.

He looks up at Rin, who smiles tightly and takes the wristwatch back. “Rin?”

“I can only jump to the past.”

Makoto’s mouth falls open.

“Huh?”

“It’s handed down from my grandparents. To my mother, and then to me.” Rin makes a vague gesture with his hand, indicating time that’s passed long ago. “There was this—time traveler shit going on in the future, or something—there’s a loop theory and all. One of them came to my grandparents and gave them this, because they figured out that in order to get to where they are in the future, it’s necessary for us to change things in the past. This—device, I guess, lets us jump to the past, and then back to our present. This number indicates how many jumps I have left—I use one to jump to the past, and another one to get back to my present timeline.”

Wow. Wait. “What?” Makoto says, dumbly, literally feeling the way his brain is trying to catch up, the way his mind whirl through what Rin is saying. “What?”

“I can only jump to the past,” Rin continues. “I figure things out in the present, finds out if someone has met me in the past when I shouldn’t have been there, and then jumps back to do just that. It’s like filling holes in the timeline. I have to do it, because if I don’t, there’s no telling what kind of disaster it’d result in.” He barks out a laugh, tilting the wristwatch, sneering at it. “Sounds like a sci-fi movie, isn’t it? Then again, we all thought so when Nagisa started talking about finding aliens.”

Time-traveler. Rin is a time-traveler—of some sort. It does make sense, Makoto thinks, recalling six years ago, picking out the difference between the Rin who came back two years ago and the Rin he’s facing now, then comparing them with the Rin he first met six years ago.

“Makoto,” a tug on his hand seizes his attention back, and Makoto looks up to see Rin’s serious eyes. “You said that six years ago, I saved your life.”

Makoto nods. Waits. Watches the way Rin close his eyes, the way he looks defeated, and feels something much like fear grips him. “Rin?”

“That means if I don’t go—you wouldn’t be here.”

Makoto pauses, tries to find the thread between Rin’s earlier explanation and the sudden return to what happened six years ago. “Yes? No—what—what are you talking about?”

Rin is silent for a moment. His fingers tighten around Makoto’s own, loosen, and then tighten again. “If I don’t go now,” he says quietly, “You’d have been dead. You wouldn’t be here.”

Oh.

“You have to go,” he realizes, and something in him constricts at the thought. The part of him that’s always scared, always waiting for Rin to disappear, stirs and curls in his stomach unpleasantly. “But you’ll be—“

He stops dead, eyes fixed on the wristwatch on Rin’s lap, and the number laughs mockingly at him.

**_1_**.

“No.” It rips out of his throat, the denial, the refusal. “No, no, no, you can’t go, Rin—you said you need another jump to return to the present, but you only have one jump left. You can’t go, you—“ He chokes on his breath, the memory of a bloodied notebook flashing in his mind, and it clicks. It clicks with a painful slap, and Makoto snaps his head up, eyes wide in realization.

“You died,” he whispers in horror. “Six years ago. Four months after—after you saved me.”

Rin looks back at him, eyes sad. “Makoto—“

“You can’t go,” Makoto pleads, begs, and he reaches out, fingers curling to clutch at whatever part of Rin he can touch. He presses himself close, buries his face in the crook of Rin’s neck. “You can’t, please don’t go, Rin—you can’t leave if you’re not going to come back, you can’t—“

“I saved your life,” Rin’s voice breaks against his ears, and Makoto thinks this is how Rin sounds when he’s heartbroken. “I have to go, Makoto.”

“No,” He refuses. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t care about six years ago. Not anymore. He can’t let Rin go. “No, you can’t go, please, please don’t go, promise me you won’t, Rin—“

And he kisses Rin, tastes tears and doesn’t know whose they are. He pushes Rin down, seeking skin, and Rin gasps under him, pressing back like they have no time left, and all Makoto could think is _don’t go, don’t go, don’t go_ —

He’s sobbing. He’s sobbing almost uncontrollably, shaking in Rin’s arms, and Rin’s lips carve promises against his cheek.

“I won’t. I won’t.”

**\------o0o-----**

He wakes up to wisps of images.

The dim light from the streetlights filters in through the windows—the blinds pulled completely open, the night sky a dark canvas, a background to Rin’s figure, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes wistful. He reaches out sleepily, closes his eyes when Rin’s fingers brush against his fringe, almost too gently, and then he feels Rin’s lips against his eyelids, pressing once-twice-thrice.

“I love you,” he hears Rin murmurs. Makoto opens his mouth to answer, but sleep is tugging him back almost relentlessly, and his lips go slack when Rin’s own finds it. They kiss, languid but deep, and something in Makoto stirs almost in warning.

The bed creaks as Rin pulls away. Makoto blinks his eyes open drowsily, drifting in and out, as he watches Rin slowly gets up, reaching for the pressed police uniform hanging in front of the closet. His eyes threaten to close again, heavy with sleep, and when he blinks them open again, Rin is dressed—and Makoto remembers.

Remembers almost too painfully.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, and Rin turns around and grins.

"It’s alright,” he says, bends down and presses their lips together again. Makoto feels sleep tugging him back, feels rather than hears Rin’s words spoken against his lips. “I have to go, Makoto.”

_No_ , Makoto tries to say, and hates that he could barely keep his eyes open. Rin’s smile swims in and out of focus, and Makoto feels his fingers grasping Rin’s sleeve slowly go slack, losing their strength. _Don’t go, don’t—_

“Please,” Forehead pressed against his own, a voice so sad and apologetic. “Let me give a chance for us to find one another.”

Makoto’s fingers let go. He sees Rin’s grin, one last time, haloed by the dim streetlight against the backdrop of the night skyand the old thought comes back.

Rin is like a dream.

Makoto can’t reach out, and this time, Rin doesn’t reach out, either.

Then there’s a flash, and the room is suddenly empty but for him and the dim streetlights streaming in from the windows.

Sleep claims him like those who never wish to wake up.

**\------o0o-----**

He wakes up anyway. To an empty room and a bed that’s cold on one side, and an apartment that’s just as empty with all the boxes piling up in the living room.

Makoto drags his feet to the kitchen. He drinks—chugs them down like he hasn’t drunk anything in days, and then stumbles into the bathroom. He stares emptily at the mirror, wonders why he looks more exhausted than that one time he’s been fighting fire for almost six hours straight, and turns on the shower.

The water is cold. He doesn’t bother with the hot water, lets them run over him until his teeth chatter before he pulls himself out. Drying his hair is too much of a bother so he doesn’t, but he gets dressed anyway before turning back to the bedroom, and stares at the bright, warm day outside.

The blinds are still open. Rin left them open, last night.

Makoto drags the old blanket from the couch and climbs back into bed, curling around the old blanket, and drifts off to sleep.

**\------o0o-----**

His phone rings. Again and again, relentlessly, but Makoto just pushes it away and tries to go back to sleep. It’s dark again, outside, so it should be normal time to sleep. Like nomal people do.

So he sleeps. Wakes up to the sound of his doorbell ringing, this time, accompanied with stubborn calls that only belongs to Nagisa’s. The sun shines too brightly over his face, so Makoto pulls the old blanket over his face and tune the noises out. Sleep. He doesn’t need to think, if he just goes to sleep. If he’s lucky, he might dream of Rin.

He doesn’t, though. He wakes up again, drowsy, feeling too warm with a steady pounding in his head and two low voices arguing heatedly. Haruka and Sousuke’s, he figures, and blearily opens his eyes to the black night sky outside and the too bright lights of his room. He closes them again, tries to go back to sleep, and hears Nagisa, his voice faded and sad, worried.

“—haven’t eaten anything, right? Mako-chan, please wake up. Did you drink at all today? You’re burning up—“

_Don’t make that voice_ , Makoto thinks, feeling almost guilty, but still too inclined to go back to sleep. He drifts off again, the noises growing further, blissful sleep welcoming him too readily.

And then the old blanket he’s clutching is forcibly pulled off, and Makoto jolts awake. He reaches out blindly, feeling for the comforting weight of the old blanket, nearly sobs when his hand clutches on empty air.

“No—“ he pleads, pushing himself up, and the tears spill before he could even realizes it. “No, please, no—“

Haruka is there, holding the blanket out of reach with Sousuke towering behind him, looking grave. Makoto meets his eyes, sees pain and grief and worry and anger, and he remembers six years ago, _six years ago—_

“Get up,” Haruka says, voice shaking, and Makoto sees through the blur of tears that Haruka looks like he’s about to cry. “Get up, Makoto. Right now.”

Something in him snaps. Something in him breaks at the sight, at how Haruka holds everything in, how Haruka still tries to stand for him, how Haruka himself is standing on the edge, right now. Makoto’s loss is his loss, too, Makoto realizes, because Rin has also been Haruka’s best friend, and Haruka is the only one who knows about six years ago, about—

“I’m sorry,” Makoto chokes, and Haruka’s face twists, almost breaks. “I’m sorry.”

“Get up,” Haruka says again, voice breaking, shoulders shaking.

Makoto gets up.

**\------o0o-----**

He has a nearly 39 degrees celcius of fever. Haruka cooks up okayu for him, and Makoto looks away when he catches Haruka scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes. Nagisa wraps him in blankets and goes to buy him cold medicine, and Sousuke is the one who sits on the edge of his bed, the lines of his face hard, and says, “He went, didn’t he?”

Makoto slowly looks up. Of course. “You knew.”

Of course Sousuke would know.

Haruka strides back into the room bringing the bowl of okayu. Makoto holds it close as Haruka takes a seat on the other side of the bed, relishing the warmth that seep into his hands from the bowl. They let the silence stretch for a while, until Makoto decides to take a spoonful of okayu into his mouth.

It brings a small smile to his lips. “Thank you, Haru.”

Haruka’s head dips ever-so-slightly. Makoto hears what he doesn’t say, hears the questions hanging between them, and he thinks if he tries to grasp them harder, he could also hear Sousuke’s own stories, ready to be spilled—secrets that stayed between Sousuke and Rin, secrets that not even Makoto was allowed to be privy to. Secrets that now weigh down Sousuke’s shoulders, because Rin is no longer here, and they are all mourning.

So he tells them everything. He tells them how he remembers the scar, tells them how Rin figures things out, tells them how Rin promised not to go. He tells them the wispy images between sleep and wakefulness, how Rin pleaded to be let go, to give the two of them a chance. He tells Sousuke of the Rin he remembered six years ago, of the four months that were almost like a dream, of how Rin disappeared, and the notebook splotched with the color of black roses.

Sousuke, of course, has his own stories.

“He has to go, whenever he figures out that he’d changed the past,” is how Sousuke begins. “There’s a natural law about it—if he doesn’t go, he’d mess with the timeline and we probably won’t be where we are right now. Or something disastrous might just happen. It’s—a heavy responsibility.”

Makoto’s throat feels dry. He knows that, instinctively. It doesn’t make everything easier to accept.

“Remember that one time he said he’s going back to Tokyo?” Sousuke continues, cuts himself off with a bark of rough laughter. “It was because Gou called him. Said a friend of her met Rin on her way to school a few weeks ago, and stalled her long enough that she missed the bus.” He pauses, expression hardening. “The bus went careening off the street and hits a building. All of the passengers have been casualties. She was safe, because Rin made her miss the bus.”

“That’s why he said he’s going to Tokyo for a few days,” Makoto says. Everything makes sense, now. “He was not going to be _here_. He was _going back_ —that’s why he didn’t want me to see him off.”

“Or pick him up,” Sousuke nods. “Because he wasn’t leaving by train or the plance. He usually just—“ a vague gesture of a hand, one that makes something in Makoto aches. He winces, remembering the flash before Rin had disappear completely, and wonders if he wasn’t able to keep himself awake because Rin had done something to him, too.

He feels tired. He’s angry, too, angry at how the whole world and fate itself had toyed with him, but now he’s mostly just really, really tired.

He catches Sousuke exchange glances with Haruka, catches the understanding flash across Sousuke’s face. He pats Makoto’s knees slightly awkwardly and offers a smile, tight and pained, and Makoto knows Sousuke is hurt just as bad as he is. Rin’s been his best friend since childhood—he knows Rin longer than Makoto does, and that sends guilt lancing through him somehow, because Rin went back for him.

Of all people, it was for Makoto.

“I’ll let his family know,” Sousuke says quietly, as he rises to his feet. “They probably won’t come down here, but I’ll let you know what they’d decide to do.”

The door closes behind Sousuke’s back. Both Haruka and Makoto pretend not to hear to sound of someone sliding down the wooden door, or the sounds of sharp intakes of breath that follows from outside.

He wonders if Sousuke is crying, as well.

**\------o0o-----**

In front of them, the TV blares on.

Makoto wraps himself in the old blanket and tries to make himself as small as possible, fitting himself on the corner of the couch. Haruka sits by his side, hugging his knees, eyes vacant as he stares at the awful reality TV show—comedians and people laughing at bad jokes, entertainers who smiles and blushes and politely answers everything on cue. Makoto watches Haruka not watching TV for a moment, and wonders if Haruka is thinking of Rin, too.

It feels like all he does is think of Rin, ever since he disappears a few days ago.

He closes his eyes, remembers the fire six years ago. Remembers the blur that was RIn saving him, and how Rin had appeared to greet him in the hospital. The memory raises something bitter in the back of his throat, and Makoto opens his mouth, almost chokes on nothing as he says, “I shouldn’t have—“

“If you’re going to say that you shouldn’t have been here,” Haruka says, voice low, and Makoto recognize anger simmering underneath. “I won’t forgive you.”

He sees Haruka’s jaw clacks when he closes his mouth, sees the clenched fists of Haruka’s hands. Makoto averts his eyes and fixes his gaze at the unopened boxes littering the living room instead.

“Yeah,” he says, tinny and hurt, and he pulls the blanket closer, huddling under it.

Haruka’s face hardens.

“Yeah,” Makoto says, and breaks into silent sobs two seconds later.

**\------o0o-----**

It feels weird, to do this again.

He hasn’t done this for almost two years, and yet the sense of old routine is still there, shadowing his steps. Drop by the flower shop to buy a stem of white lily. Walk along the riverside and cross the bridge to the south side of the city. Pass Haruka’s café, stop until Haruka spots him outside the café and waves at him, and then continue down the road towards where the underpass crossing the river is, and follow the trail of wild flowers to the riverbank.

Makoto lays the stem of white lily on the point where water kisses the soil, and watches the current licks the stem tentatively, before a particularly strong one takes it away and floats it along the river.

He remembers doing this, every year. He remembers thinking about Rin and how he’s just like dreams, disappearing as soon as Makoto couldn’t reach him, wishing that dreams could have lasted longer. If he’d known back then, he ponders, would he still wish for Rin to come back? To let him dream a while longer, and be there?

His heart weighs heavily in his chest, a clear answer of yes.

He follows the stem of white lily with his eyes until it’s swallowed by the water. He doesn’t say anything. He stares at the glittering surface of the water, instead, until the sun begins to hang low and the horizon stretches in anticipation of the sun coming home.

Makoto smiles sadly. “Bye, Rin.”

Never a real farewell.

**\------o0o-----**

He goes to work. Lets Mikoshiba slap him on the back heartily, and forces a smile whenever a worried look thrown his way. No one knows exactly what was going on, only that the rumor of Matsuoka Rin going missing has spread down from the police station. Makoto wonders what sort of story Sousuke had come up with to explain things, and decides he doesn’t want to know.

He goes for walks, helps kids and adults alike, and goes to Haruka’s café. He treats himself to sweets, or Nagisa does, and sometimes Rei does too, and Makoto tries not to break down crying whenever the four of them are there and still, _Rin isn’t_. He eats the cake instead, swallows the pain and the grief and the loneliness, and says, “I’ll be okay.”

No one believes him. There’s nothing to be done, though. Because Makoto still comes home to boxes unpacked, a reminder of plans for the future that would never come true, now. He stares at them one weekend, finding himself thinking about making spaces for two, about adjusting to someone else’s presence at home, and suddenly, he’s moving and reaching out for the boxes.

He unpacks Rin’s things like they’re his own. Slots books into the shelves, rearrange the furnitures so they could fit in what scant spaces left in the apartment. He hangs Rin’s clothes, fits them into the closet, and arranges Rin’s toiletries in the bathroom—two toothbrushes in one glass instead of one, now, and Makoto tries not to think about how one of them would never get used anymore—and cleans up the whole bath as well before lining shampoo and soap bottles on its edges. There are more spices in his kitchen than what he knows what to do with them, and there are far more pans and pots than he would ever need, but that’s okay.

He’s creating a space for someone who isn’t here, and it feels oddly cathartic.

Framed photographs of Rin’s family share the uppermost display shelf above the TV with Makoto’s own. He looks at them one by one—at the soft lines of Rin’s mother’s face, and the tall ponytail Rin’s sister Gou always wears, at their identical smiles and grins, at the only photo of his Dad that Rin has. He looks young, Makoto notices—too young to die and leave his family behind. He puts it up by his family’s photo, and wishes he’d had a framed picture of him and Rin, together.

There’s a phone number scrawled over the back of the frame with Gou’s photo on it. Makoto stares at it contemplatively, feeling the urge to reach out, to seek for people who feels the same, who loses Rin and mourns him. He could call, he thinks. He could try to get to know Rin’s family. Share stories, perhaps, if not grief. They did, after all, lose the same person.

His fingers tremble as they dial Gou’s number. It rings, three-four-five times, and he gets through with a faint click.

“Hello?”

A feminine voice, steady and smooth, and Makoto opens his mouth to introduce himself. _My name is Makoto_ , he thinks, _and Rin went back to save me_.

His throat tightens. Nothing comes out but fresh tears, and Makoto presses a hand over his mouth, crouches down and tries to swallow the pain. He breathes, sharply, and hears the voice on the other side repeats, tentatively, “Hello…?”

_I’m sorry_ , Makoto thinks. _I’m sorry_.

He cuts the connection.

**\------o0o-----**

The days feel longer, but the nights feel even longer.

His friends have begun to spend nights at his place in turns. One night it’s Nagisa and the next is Haruka, the other night it’s Rei, and Makoto is even rendered speechless when Sousuke shows up with drinks one particular stormy night. It’s when he realizes that his friends have probably made up some sort of schedule, and he supposes he can’t do anything about it.

He knows it’s to keep him company, knows because his friends need the company as well—others who knows what they lost, what holes Rin’s left behind—but he also knows that they want to keep an eye on him, to make sure that he’s not doing anything stupid. He’s not. He’s not going to, either. He’s the proof of how Rin saved lives, the proof of how selfless Rin could be, and he’s not going to throw the life Rin saved away.

Days are longer, nights are even longer. Makoto wakes up, gets up and gets to work, and tries not to think too much about himself, about living his life when Rin isn’t, about being here when Rin isn’t.

Somehow, days turn into months, and Makoto keeps going.

**\------o0o-----**

On the fourth month of Rin’s disappearance, Haruka and Sousuke come over for a game night.

They decide on marathoning the newest _Tales of_ series, an RPG adventure that allows more than three players to join the battle as a party, but only one leader to explore the cities. Haruka snags the main controller because he refuses to leave exploration to anyone else, and Sousuke retaliates by bitching and being generally the most annoying backseat driver, pointing out things that Haruka might have missed and insisting to talk to every NPCs available.

“I’m doing this quest,” Haruka says, and Sousuke points insistently at the old man NPC on the far corner of the screen. Haruka glares at him. “He sells wares.”

“What would you do if he actually holds the key to the quest we’re doing? Just talk to him, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is a time-limited quest.”

“Cut the grinding on the way to the next town, then.”

There’s something in their bickerings that brings a slight smile to Makoto’s lips; a reminiscence of times well past—the first game night they did, the four of them, with Rin cooking dinner as Haruka and Sousuke threw verbal assaults over trying to kill each other’s character. It feels weird, hanging out with just the three of them. Rin’s absence feels even more pronounced like this, with the way Sousuke and Haruka fill the silence with half-hearted insults, as if waiting for someone to break their fights or put his foot down.

It’s Rin’s role, Makoto thinks, and doesn’t try to replace it.

He heaves a sigh, shuffling off the couch to get more drinks from the kitchen. Sousuke always brings over an obscene amount of coke whenever he sleeps over that Makoto has to store most of them in the kitchen cabinets now, with pre-packaged food that he buys from the convenience store. He should get lemonade to go with them, the way Haruka likes it, but that means he’d need to run down to the store and he’s too lazy to do that now.

“Makoto,” Sousuke calls out, shaking the empty can of coke. “Can you get me another one?”

“You’ll die of diabetes,” Haruka snits, and Sousuke snorts at him. Makoto chuckles, pulls out two cans of coke and a bottle of oolong tea for Haruka. He pads back towards the living room, setting the drinks on the floor when he hears it.

The loud thud in the bedroom.

Haruka pauses the game, looking alert. Sousuke frowns. “What was—“

“I’ll go check,” Makoto says, waves the worried looks his two friends are throwing him. “It’s okay—it’s probably just something in the closet.”

He doubts it is—he doesn’t remember having anything in the closet that would cause such a loud noise if they fall down. He takes a breath, holds them in, and inches his way towards his bedroom. The doorknob feels cold under his hand, and he slowly, slowly, twists it before pushing it open.

The light from the living room filters in. He hears Haruka and Sousuke murmur in low voices—tensed and suspicious, and Makoto blindly searches for the light switch.

It flicks on.

Makoto freezes.

There’s blood. So much blood--a clear trail from Makoto’s bed where the blankets are half pushed down, down to the wooden flooring, bright red with splotches the color of red roses. None of it matters, though, because the blood is also tainting the blue police uniform—running down sprawled legs, vibrant against the pale, familiar face framed by red strands of a different shade. Matsuoka Rin, on all fours, crawling on the floor and leaving trails of blood behind, one hand clutching his side, and Makoto loses his breath.

He watches in horror, wide-eyed, and Rin—Rin looks up, eyes filled with tears, reaching out to him, and says with lips specked by blood, too weakly, “Makoto.”

The voice, brittle and scared, snaps something in Makoto. “Oh my god,” he shrills, one hand going up to cover his mouth. He starts forward, steps stuttering, but then he throws himself on the floor and the next thing he knows, he’s reaching for Rin desperately, fingers grasping, clutching, holding on. “Oh my god, Rin—Haru! Haru, please, call the ambulance, we need the ambulance, please—“ He hears hurried steps, and thinks, _not fast enough_ , and shouts, “Sousuke! Sousuke, get in here!”

And he scoops Rin into his arms, unaware that he’s sobbing, pressing his lips against Rin’s temple, hands pressing against Rin’s wound, trying to slow the bleeding, and then there’s Sousuke’s hands helping, and Rin’s body is warm and solid and heavy in his arms, Rin’s fingers tangling in his hair as he presses his lips to whatever part of Makoto he could reach, almost as desperate as Makoto is, and his breathing is fast, feverish, and he’s _alive_.

Alive and _here_. Somehow. Not a dream. Solid in Makoto’s arms—real.

Rin. Rin. _Rin. Rin--_

The wail of siren cuts through the night.

**\------o0o-----**

The way the days blur together feels rather disconcerting, after how they dragged on for four months.

But he wakes up to a blinding sunray that falls straight over him, turning the edges of his vision white for a moment that he has to close his eyes back. There’s a hand on top of his head, fingers running through his hair in an affectionate touch, gentle and careful, and Makoto opens his eyes, looking up to see Rin, awake and alert, bathed in the morning sunlight that highlights the vibrant shade of his hair, gazing down at him with a smile.

Like a dream.

His throat constricts painfully, and the tears come almost simultaneously. It’s hard to breathe, and Makoto’s mouth moves around the syllables of Rin’s name soundlessly, shuddering as he tries to catch the elusive air. He feels Rin’s hand slide down, feels his fingers rest over his cheeks, his thumb catching the tears on the corner of Makoto’s eyes.

“I’m home,” Rin whispers.

Makoto lets out a broken sound, and he pushes himself up, hands holding Rin’s and pressing it against his cheek, then his lips, because he doesn’t want to let go anymore—god, don’t make him let go anymore. His sight blurs with tears, but Rin’s brittle smile swims into focus, and Makioto reaches out, fingers catching the tears rolling down Rin’s cheek.

Rin’s other hand keeps his hand in place, pressing a kiss to the base of Makoto’s thumb, and Makoto moves, pressing their foreheads together, and stays there for a long while.

“Welcome home,” he whispers back.

**\------o0o-----**

He crouches down and lays the stem of white lily where the water kisses the soil. It takes four tries before the water steals it away almost unsurely, letting it sway above the surface before carrying it down the river. He watches, almost wistfully, and thinks, _this is the last time_.

In his hand, Rin’s fingers tighten.

“There were five of them,” Rin says, a thin veneer of calmness betraying the nervousness that makes his words tremble. “Crowding around a middle school girl. Just high school delinquents, trying to get money from those who can’t defend themselves. You know.”

Makoto nods. Squeezes Rin’s hand. “You saved her.”

It wasn’t just him that Rin went back to save.

“My mistake was looking down on them. Just high school delinquents, and I forgot how dangerous desperation could be.” The smile on Rin’s face is clearly a self-deprecating one. “Didn’t even notice one of them had a knife until it cut my stomach open.”

Makoto winces. This time, it’s Rin who squeezes his hand. “They ran away once I threatened them with my gun. I thought I was definitely going to die.” He pauses, voice going too quiet now. “Maybe I really was going to die. Maybe that’s what triggered the jump back to the present. I didn’t think I have that jump, but it brought me back here.”

“I’m glad it did,” Makoto croaks, feeling unsteady for a moment, with only Rin’s hand grounding him. He turns to Rin, takes in the non-existent distance between their arms, and presses himself closer. “I’m glad you came home.”

He listens to Rin’s steady breath, a comfort he didn’t think he could have again. After a moment, Rin lets his head falls sideways, onto Makoto’s shoulder, and there’s a sheer relief in his voice when he murmurs, “me, too.”

The first layers of reds and oranges touch the surface of the river, glittering under the glare of the sun setting. The stem of white lily has long disappear under the current, and Makoto recalls the routines he went through to come here, and how reassuring it had been to have Rin by his side, matching him for every step he took. Here, he thinks, and tightens his hold on Rin’s hand.

The water licks the spaces between wildflowers under their feet. Rin’s hair is tickling the spot under his chin, and Makoto watches the sun slowly returns to the arms of the horizon—somewhere unreachable, somewhere unthinkable. This is how the world goes on, and in this very second, Makoto realizes what a gift their present is—perhaps from god, or whatever Sir Destiny is, but—

He smiles, turning to bury his face into Rin’s hair, and says against the red strands, “Thank you.”

“Hmm?” Rin’s reply comes, sounding content. Makoto can’t ask for anything else.

“For the present.”

There’s a pause in which Makoto could practically hear Rin grasping the meaning of the word, and then he shifts, pulling away, eyes bright and happy when he finds Makoto’s own.

“Yeah.”

Makoto leans forward to close the distance between them, and Rin meets him halfway.

**\------o0o-----**

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW I'M SORRY FOR THE SCIFI DEVICE COMING OUT OF NOWHERE BUT IN MY DEFENSE THEY CANONICALLY HAVE ALIENS IN FUTURE FISH AU SO THERE.


End file.
